A Switch of Destinies
by Firing Rockets on Dragons
Summary: In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat. Rated M because of language .
1. Prologue

A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters.

A/N: This is a multi-chaptered fic in response to a prompt about role-reversal (Escort Haymitch and Mentor Effie). So things are going to be different. Up to what extent, I am still unsure. However, despite this deviation from the canon, I do hope that you guys enjoy it. Thank you.

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Prologue:

Richard Trinket's life was a life lived in silent prayer. It was all he could do to keep himself sane on those terrifying moments he spent waiting on an announcement that could make or break his world.

In his youth, he secretly cursed his parents for bringing him into such a cruel, unforgiving world and vowed that he would not wed and bring forth an offspring that would suffer the same fate as he and the other innocents. They were the generation of sacrificial lambs, cursed to live seven years in agony as they await their verdict. Judgment day happened once a year and they were required to be at their best – pretty clothes and polished shoes against the dusty soil made fertile by sweat and blood – to distract the Capitol people from noticing their tear-stained faces and buckling knees. But while he hated the ignorant fools from the horn of plenty, he blamed no one but the district elders for his misfortunes.

"_Why, we owe them the lives we so pleasantly live; lives that are easily taken away by the glorious moment of harsh inhumanity that one has to wonder why life was given, at all."_

"_Spoken like a true scholar," _hisfriends would say, shaking their heads in mock disapproval,_ "the president would have our heads if he could hear what you're saying."_

He wondered how the district people could manage to procreate, what with the threat of the reaping and the Hunger Games looming over them, it seemed far-fetched to raise a family. He was sure the annual slaughter would go on until the world comes to its devastating end (but with such display of barbarism, he relished the idea of the world sinking into oblivion). Were they unable to see it coming? Perhaps it was blind hope that kept them going, or perhaps it was the fear of extinction. He sneered at the latter idea; they should just let it go. Extinction was a better fate than a life lived in fear and misery. That or the people who made their lives so wretched should just go rot in hell. The latter seemed far more inviting, and he felt that it was well-deserved.

"_Stick to reading Peter Pan, my boy," _his father advised,_ "maybe that way, you'd never grow up and think about things you ought to be erasing from your head. Silly ideas of slaves killing their masters for freedom would get you nowhere. Look at what happened to our ancestors. They're all dead, but those who carry their blood still suffer."_

Every year, while he waited for the escort to recite the names of the chosen tributes, he prayed to an unknown deity that he be spared. It was a strange human urge – the urge to survive – which allowed him to utter the name of the _god _whose credibility remained questionable. He had read all about a time so long ago when people believed, but the world was simple then. Although the present seemed even simpler now that he thought about it – simply barbaric. There was nothing wrong with taking a leap of faith, but just in case the Holy Bible was nothing more than a long, boring fairytale, he had mentally prepared himself to meet his bitter end. He chanted to himself every year.

"_Should my life end prematurely, I will rejoice. No more will I have to bear the misery of being a citizen of this god-forsaken district – no offense, big guy."_

He did this because tall, lanky boys with coarse blond hair and dull blue eyes – obscured by a large pair of glasses that hung onto a beaky nose – did not stand a chance against the smug-faced young ladies from Districts 1, 2, and 4, let alone their male counterparts. All he had at his disposal was his strange vision of a world so surreal, it was out of reach, and the arena was no place for dreamers. It was best to hope for divine intervention that may or may not come, and embrace the notion of one's imminent death if god decided that he did not give a damn. When his eighteenth year had come and gone without incident, he managed to breathe a sigh of relief. God did not fail him, not at this time of his life. And for four years, he had forgotten what it was like to pray.

Richard, in those four years he spent living without fear, began to see women more clearly. The thing about women, he found, is that when they are around, an infatuated man's brain turns into mush, reducing him to a blithering idiot whose impulse is to cover a growing erection. The son of the bookshop owner was not an exception to this unfortunate truth (being twenty-two, he was very much susceptible).

The first time he had set eyes on Sara Whitman, Richard merely shrugged and made his way towards the classroom; he was only seven then. Although their age and status did not differ, they were not on the same circle. Girls had cooties and boys wiped boogers on the sleeves of their shirts; to mingle with each other was an idea they banished from their unadulterated young minds. Moreover, Sara did not impress him. She was one of the kids who raised their hands and blurted out the wrong answers, and the teacher would say _'very good, do we have other good ideas?'_ He knew she was wrong because he'd read the answers from the books his father sold, but he never said a word. Five years later, the rift between the sexes had vanished and he found that his friends were preoccupied with the girls they fancied. He was the only constant in an ever-changing world – too caught up with the books he managed to sneak out of his family's bookshop. He didn't care about love and attraction because he thought they were unnecessary, burdensome even. It was also around this time when he first made a vow of celibacy to himself for the sake of the child who, he thought, would never see the light of day. But years came and went; the smart little boy from the school playground ate his words and turned into an awkward young man who hid behind the pages of his books. Little Sara Whitman who – despite being outspoken and inquisitive – was just another terrified face in the uneasy crowd, had grown into a beautiful young woman with an interest in literature. Richard Trinket, survivor of the reaping and unrefined scholar, was suddenly reminded of the god he had chosen to forget.

'_Do not bring us to the test, and deliver us—deliver me from the pretty girl who's about to make me break the most sacred of my promises.'_

It was much too late to plead for intercession; his pants tightened, almost suffocating his treacherous old friend. Only then did he understand the ordeal his forefathers had to endure. They, too, probably thought it was best to die alone, but then some pretty, young thing came along and made them lose their senses; attraction, lust, and love have joined forces and won. His forefathers had failed him. It was not their fault, women should not be allowed to possess such great beauty; Sara should not be allowed the luxury of wearing her honey-blonde tresses down, and her smile should not be so disarming that when it reached her bright blue eyes, his heart throbbed in an unbelievable rhythm. Would he be at fault if he did not stay true to his word?

"_You seem to know your literature," _she said. _"What would you recommend?"_

In Sara Whitman's presence, he was no longer the quick-witted young man known for his quiet hostility. Instead, he was a love-struck puppy whose only goal is to do her bidding while covering the embarrassing protrusion growing within his corduroy pants. He scrambled out of his chair and in his haste, tripped face first on the creaky wooden floor of the bookshop.

"_Damn it."_

He was literally head over heels in love with her.

Richard was more than thankful that after his embarrassing attempt at hospitality, Sara still frequented the bookshop. Week after week, he would sit on the same spot he occupied that fateful day of her first visit, and she would find him. And while he was initially quiet and needed a good shove before he would speak, the son of the bookshop owner eventually spilled out his heart to her, preaching thoughts and ideas that he knew were alien to her.

"_If it was the years you spent behind bookshelves stealing glances at your father's merchandise, or a natural passion to seek out a greater truth, I do not know,"_ she told him_. "But I am grateful because in all the years I spent in this dreary world, I never had such enlightening conversations that wove paradoxes into one rich tapestry."_ He stared at her, awestruck, and she bit her lower lip, feeling rather silly. _"I'm sorry if it came out all wrong and confusing, it's just that I was trying to match your eloquence."_

"_No, I think your words made perfect sense." _

He pretended not to notice the way her bright blue eyes would shine whenever he patiently explained to her why he believed what he chose to believe, and he tried his hardest to conceal the overwhelming joy he felt each time she voiced out her doubts, or relented.

However, this newfound companionship troubled him to no end. At the back of his mind, a little voice screamed, telling him to stop this madness. He wanted nothing more than to keep his word, but with each meeting, he felt her grow closer to him. On the maddening days he spent alone – desiring the company he had gotten accustomed to – her scent lingered in the air, along with the musty smell of old paper. It dawned on him that the bookshop was no longer his refuge; it was _theirs_. His logic dictated that it was wrong – he prayed for self-control – but his heart told him otherwise. If he were to put a hackneyed phrase to his dilemma, the words _'so wrong, yet so right' _would fit like a glove. Richard realized that his god had stopped listening to his self-denying requests when he woke up one morning with his arms snaked around Sara's naked form – she was sound asleep, comfortable in his embrace, as if she belonged there with him. It was too late to turn back. She, too, felt the same for him, albeit without the half-heartedness and reluctance that was tugging at his insides.

"_I'm pregnant." _She made her announcement a month after his father's passing, giving him much to think about.

If, on those nights of passion, Richard had forgotten the sole reason for the promise he made as a boy, Sara's announcement became his painful reminder. She was with child, and he fathered the said child. That child would come to know the same world they knew and despised, would struggle against fear, and pray for his or her dear life. That child would curse him and Sara the way he cursed his father and mother – bless their departed souls. His worst fear was knowing that he would not be able to give a reasonable answer if his child would be impertinent enough to ask the dreaded question. He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a smile upon his thin lips. He didn't want Sara to think that he was disappointed with her news when he was more disappointed in himself and his incapability to protect his own flesh and blood.

"_Will you marry me?" _It was all he could think of. After all, it's the first step to taking responsibility.

When he first heard her infantile wails on that cold winter night, he did not know what to make of it; did the newborn mourn for the bleak future that was in store, or did she cry because her mother was dying of post-partum hemorrhage. He cried for both as he held his dying wife's hand. She smiled at him between labored breaths, her pale, bow-shaped lips betraying nothing. He kissed her hand and begged her to stay because he knew he could not do this on his own.

"_Over there, being cleaned up by one of the women is our little girl. She's crying like a little harpy because she wants nothing more than to feel your warmth. She needs a mother, Sara. She needs you."_

"_I can make no promises."_ She reached up to touch his face, to wipe away the stream of tears that generously flowed from his eyes. _"If you could do me a favor, although I cannot give you what you ask, name our girl Euphemia. With you as her father, I am sure she would grow up to be very well-spoken."_

Again, Richard found himself praying to an unseen force. Spare Sara, grant her the energy, and grant the healer a newfound skill, so that his family would be given time to spend together; so that his daughter would not grow up without a mother, just like he had. But he knew it was too much to ask. He knew it was too late when she closed her eyes and her bosom ceased to rise. He held her hand against his face. His wife, his Sara, was gone. For the second time, his halfhearted faith had failed him. He was given the tiny bundle that closed the most tragic chapter of his life. At twenty-five, he was a single father.

"_My little Euphemia Trinket," _his little one. His pride and joy; she was the only thing that gave him strength to wake up in the morning. She was the flower in an endless field of weeds. With her honey-blonde hair, cerulean eyes, tiny nose, and captivating smile, father could only marvel at his daughter's likeness to her departed mother. Richard would one day tell this child the tale of how the neighbors had come to know her as _Effie_, the princess who lived above his bookshop. He would tell her that at age four, when people asked for her name, she was unable to say 'Euphemia' because it was such a big word for such a little girl, so she blurted out 'Effie' instead. They all thought this was an adorable name for an equally adorable girl, and hence the nickname was born. And then he would tell her why she was named _Euphemia. _

Richard spent his years educating the girl with books, and soon, the bookshop became Effie's little paradise – a place where she often found herself lost in a world of fairytales and adventures. She was many things; a pirate, a witch, a sorceress, and a dragon tamer, but to her father, she would always be a little princess, the inheritor of the family business if she made it past eighteen. He shuddered at the latter thought; growing past one's teenage years should not be made a luxury. How he dreaded the day his innocent little girl would turn twelve – that dreaded age when she would be qualified for the reaping. He wished that they could stand frozen in time and preserve his daughter's unawareness to cruelty. But alas, time has a way of slipping by, unnoticed. Soon enough, it was winter and the bookshop princess was blowing candles for her twelfth birthday.

"_Happy birthday, love," _but from his lips, the words came out too bitter. Effie gave him a smile because she did not notice her father's unease.

He laid out a pastel pink dress for her because it was a special day: her first reaping. Effie Trinket stared at the simple a-line dress with a pale yellow satin sash. Such delicate hues perfect for springtime. He chose those colors to remind his daughter of the pretty wildflowers of purple and yellow that grew on the meadow by the border. The thought of such exquisite beauty was supposed to calm her nerves, but she felt otherwise. Knowing that she may never marvel at the simple joys of the outdoors again filled her heart to the brim with dread. Father read his daughter's thoughts and inwardly sighed at his inability to console her. Richard left the room to allow Effie some privacy as she bathed and dressed, but not before giving her something to think about. He knew that she would dwell on his words, utter them to herself repeatedly until she understood.

"_Take heart, Effie."_

The dress went on over her head.

"_You must stand straight, just like your heroes."_

Her arms went through the holes of the sleeves.

"_Because you're just like them."_

She tied the yellow sash around her waist.

"_YOU are your own champion."_

She put on her pastel pink shoes. _Knock, knock. _Richard was just in time. He turned the knob and peered through the door.

"Are you ready, sweetheart?"

She nodded, resolute and strong, eyebrows furrowed in a well-rehearsed frown.

'_Even your father cannot save you now.' _But he never told her that.

Outside, the sun was scorching hot and the land was arid and dusty. They could already feel the sultry air of summer driving out the cool and dewy springtime winds. Richard held Effie's hand all the way to the town square while silent prayers formed in his mind. He knew his god would not be able to do anything about the reaping. It was a pain experience every child had to endure, because they needed to realize that their lives were hanging by a thread. Those who were fortunate enough to live through those seven years without their names getting called would rejoice and treasure what they'd been blessed with, and get on with their lives, just like he did. Years later, they would make the mistake of having children and the reaping would be excruciatingly devastating for them because they would fear for lives far more precious than their own. There was no room for defiance in 12, and the silent flare the bookshop owner was known for – it was slowly dying.

"_In a perfect world, Euphemia – "_

"_There's no such thing, not even in fairytales."_

"_In a different world, rather – in a different world, my dear, you could be a true princess. You would be allowed the luxury of living without fear constantly hounding you."_

"_Even princesses have ordeals, dad. This happens to be mine: a seven-year ordeal that will determine if I am fit to rule the bookshop kingdom. If my name is picked out, then I'll just have to face a whole new adventure and survive. I'll come back to you, dad; stronger and smarter – better in every way."_

"_Why do you think that is?"_

"_Because I'd have known what it was like to be so close to death. A whole new appreciation for life will take place."_

"_Well said, my dear. Well said."_

Well-spoken was she, he thought, but her vague notion of reality was a reminder of her blamelessness. Effie may be a child raised in the land of tears and dust, but a child would always be a child, regardless of where she came from.

That afternoon, whilst he stood amongst the crowd of anxious parents, Richard Trinket prayed most ardently, harder than he ever did before. Perhaps, his god would spare his daughter the agony of carrying a burden much too heavy for her fragile shoulders. It shouldn't be too hard for a deity to intervene; her name would only be in there once.

"_Allow her to enjoy the gift of life, oh lord."_

The world was a blur; he barely registered the booming voice of the escort, Nessarose Hagedorn, who stood on the platform coated in neon colors and cakes of make up. She was the high and mighty representative of Capitolian oppression.

"_The time has come for us to select a pair of courageous young man and woman for the 49th Hunger Games. I bet you're all excited, aren't you?"_

An unsettling silence filled the woeful crowd. The escort cleared her throat.

"_Ladies first!"_

Richard watched as the woman dipped her hand into the bowl and tentatively reached out for a small rectangular piece of paper.

"_Myrtle Jenkins."_

A few rows behind him, Myrtle Jenkins' mother wailed like the world was ending, and he was certain that for the woman, it probably was. But while it may seem selfish, Richard Trinket silently thanked the heavens that even if it was at the expense of another, his Effie had been spared. He would not know what to do if his world was taken away from him.

"_Now for the boys."_

Those who have sons, brothers, or nephews watched the escort's every move, hoping for the same luxury Richard had been afforded this year.

"_Arthur Douglas."_

In front of him, Arthur Douglas' father held an inconsolable Mrs. Douglas. The couple wept as the boy went up the stage and shook hands with a fear-stricken Myrtle Jenkins.

"_May the odds be ever in your favor!"_

He certainly hoped so, too. They got away this year, but he could not rest easy. There were six agonizing years left, and he planned to pray without ceasing.

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A/N: The fact that there's a bookshop in District 12 may come as a surprise. After all, it implies that the government was much more lenient than in the canon, but I hope this does not discourage you. After all, this is set in an alternate universe where every person was at the right place, except Effie and Haymitch.


	2. The Irony in One's Name

A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

A/N: I want to extend my gratitude to those who reviewed, alerted, and favored this fic. It really means a lot. And to the folks in Tumblr who liked and reblogged, too. Here's chap. 1, mates. :)

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Chapter 1

Jerome Messiah had grown used to waking up to the deafening sound of silence. Such is a way of life exclusive to those who are incapable of saving anyone but themselves. He was the first and only victor of District 12, and thus, the fate of each succeeding tribute rested on his hands. It was a great responsibility for a man to take in on his own and watching the threads of life slip off one's fingers did not get any easier, but it was the price he had to pay for living, so he carried the load on his shoulders without protest. As he looked out the window onto the empty streets of the Victors' Village, he knew he hadn't done a good job. He heaved a sigh and chanted the name of every child who died under his wing – all sixty-eight of them – starting with the fallen tributes of the 16th Hunger Games up to Myrtle Jenkins and Arthur Douglas, the latest additions to his growing collection of guilt – they were brutally murdered in the 49th Hunger Games by the season's victor, a boy from District 1.

"Don't forget to stick a knife up on the lad's back when he comes parading down the streets of 12, Jerome,"He told himself as he reached for a box of cigarettes and a lighter sitting by the window ledge, beside his stainless steel ashtray.

At fifty, he could already feel the lasting effects of his unhealthful morning routine – he would sometimes cough relentlessly, until he was out of breath – but it was a habit he refused to break. The mentor would start his day remembering the fallen ones, and then light a cigarette. He would inhale the smoke with gusto and let it pervade his already blackened lungs, allowing the vapor to take away his unsaid apologies, and then he would breathe out. The diaphanous smoke would float up to the ceiling and he would think, after the smoke had faded, that his message had been sent to those who were meant to receive it. He would repeat the process until the tiny stick was reduced to a worthless stub. It was all he could do to assuage the feeling of remorse that threatened to render him immobile. The only witness to this sacred morning ritual was the yellowing spot on one of the white, cracked walls – he failed to preserve the former glory of his house, and on rainy nights, the roof would leak, causing tiny rivulets of water to cascade down the painted walls. He did not see the point of cleaning it up, and by some sort of miracle, the tiny stains had formed a face as forlorn as he felt.

The timid _'squeak'_ of the mice was the only noise he could hear from the kitchen, besides from the steady sound of his footsteps. On the sink was a pile of unwashed utensils and the vinyl floor was covered with grime. He scrunched up his nose in disgust as the rancid aroma of rotting food finally reached his senses, all the while thinking that he should hire someone to tidy up his home (because he could not muster the enthusiasm to do simple household chores). He raided the pantry and the refrigerator but all he found were cobwebs and a wedge of moldy cheese.

"Even a rat wouldn't eat that thing," he sighed as he closed the door of the fridge. "I guess it's time to visit the town."

Jerome walked out of the kitchen, and on his way to the front door, he passed a mirror. He took a moment to inspect himself. What he saw looking back was barely recognizable. His face was gaunt and his complexion pasty; what used to be olive had turned into an unhealthy shade of gray. The bags under his dull charcoal eyes were dark and sagging because of the nights spent in fitful, nightmare-filled slumber. His pointed nose and prominent jaws were his best features as a young man, but with his youth a distant memory, these qualities only made him look uncompromising and unapproachable. His thin lips were curled in a dissatisfied frown as he noticed the lines on his face – too deep for his liking – and the flecks of silver on his short dark hair.

"Well at least my nose hair is trimmed and I don't have a lousy five o'clock shadow," he muttered to himself as he tried to comb his hair with his thin hands. He smoothed the creases on his white cotton shirt and grumbled in irritation as he felt the slight protrusion of his abdomen. "I've really let myself go." After his halfhearted attempt at hygiene, Jerome stepped out of his home, leaving the comfort of the cold marble floor for the hot, parched earth of the outside world - the heat permeated the thick rubber soles of his boots.

As he passed the eerily similar houses at the Victors' Village under the harsh glare of the midmorning sun, Jerome could not help but wonder what his life would have been like if there were other victors who shared the neighborhood with him. Would his gloomy disposition be lifted, or would the screams of his neighbors as they dream of their days in the arena cut through the chilly night air like a knife. He shuddered at the thought. Suddenly, the tiny rocks on the dusty ground seemed much more interesting than the prospect of companionship.

It was the last leg of summer and the children were making the most of it. The merchants' section was abuzz with sounds of playful laughter as a bunch of fair-haired children ran around the streets in their cotton dresses and shirts. Upon seeing a familiar figure approaching, they silenced themselves and made way for the victor of the 15th Hunger Games. They looked at him – different shades of blue shining with fear, admiration, and curiosity – aware that come one day, if the odds would not be in their favor, the same man would take custody of their lives. Jerome nodded at the children's direction in recognition and went on his way.

Jerome was about to enter Caleb Mellark's bakeshop when he felt something small and hard hit his back. He turned around to find a young boy with messy jet-black hair and silver eyes holding a handful of stones. His face was blackened with coal and soot, and beside him were sacks of his tesserae – food provisions for those who agreed to enter their names in the reaping bowl multiple times.

"That used to be Arthur's job," the older man met the boy's angry glare with relative calm. "I suppose the _honor_ has been passed down to you, boy."

"You let my brother die," he growled. "You're a good-for-nothing old man!"

It was in times like this that Jerome hated himself most; seeing the hatred flash behind the family's eyes when he delivered their child's corpse drained him. And though there was no coffin on his side – it was a task he had accomplished upon his return a month, or two ago – the look on the boy's face made him reminiscent of that feeling of profound self-loathing. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone pointed out his inadequacy to him, and he promised to accept the truth with grace.

"That, I am," he whispered with resignation and pushed the bakeshop's door open to enter. He would not apologize because he knew that no amount of apology would ever make up for his inability to save another's life.

The smell of freshly baked goods flooded the air inside the bakeshop and Jerome's stomach could not help but churn. His mouth watered as he wondered how long it had been since he had a decent meal.

"Out of your hole, eh, Jerome," came the friendly voice of Caleb Mellark from behind the counter. Beside him was his 14-year-old son, Sal. The baker was a kind and approachable man who made no enemies. In his youth, he was reasonably good-looking in a boyish sort of way what with his short blond hair, blue eyes, and earnest smile. He contrasted with Jerome's dark and chiseled features. Of course, age and the daily stresses of being human had robbed them of the beauty that could only come from being young and carefree; and among the things they lost was the close friendship that they formed in the old, dusty schoolyard of the only school in 12. The mentor gave the fair-haired inhabitants of the bakeshop a halfhearted smile and went on to look at their selection of bread.

"You got any flatbread, Cal?" he asked when he couldn't find what he was looking for.

Caleb's pained expression was answer enough. "You just missed it," he said. "Someone else bought the remaining batch." The baker was now a short (he had never been particularly tall) and stout man with a belly as round as a cauldron, which he could barely fit into the tiny space between the wall and his worktop. Still, he struggled to get across the gap so that he could help an old friend. Jerome, at 6'4, towered over him.

"You could try the sweetbread, Jerome," he said, dusting the flour off his green apron when he finally managed to pass. "It's really good with tea."

"I don't drink tea."

"Well, there's loads of bread in here," Caleb's arms were wide apart, gesturing at the vast selection of carbohydrate-rich goods waiting to be purchased. "Choose what you find most pleasing." He turned to look at his stocky son. "Could you check on the buns in the oven, see if they're ready." The boy nodded and took his leave. When the baker was sure his son was out of earshot, his good-humored smile turned into an anxious grimace.

"Y'know Jerome," Caleb began, fumbling at the bottom of his apron nervously, "the second quarter quell is less than a year away." His light blue eyes scanned the mentor's features for any sign of unease, but the indifferent look on his friend's face told the baker otherwise. He pressed on. "Must be pretty tough dealin' with all those children's deaths alone."

"Where are you gettin' at, Cal?" Jerome was holding a loaf of bread at arm's length with a pair of tongs, scrutinizing it until he concluded that he was not in the mood for raisins.

"I'm just saying that you don't have to cage yourself inside that rotten house of yours, pal," the baker noted the overpowering scent of cigarette smoke on Jerome's clothes and his eyes watered. "'Tis not healthy, and with the Quarter Quell just around the corner, things must be worse for you."

"I've no face left to show, Cal," Jerome smiled as he reached for the loaf of wheat bread and put it on a tray. "The whole town hates me for letting their kids die."

"No, they don't," Caleb heaved a sigh and took the tray from his friend's hands. He returned behind his counter with some effort, and punched a few numbers on the cash register. "They're just looking for someone to blame."

"You probably would, too," said Jerome as he paid for his purchase, "if I returned to 12 with your only son lying in a wooden coffin." His stern gray eyes met the thoughtful blue ones of the baker. "You don't need to worry about me, Cal. Instead, think of your kid. Sal's a nice boy; the arena's no place for him. You had better hope that his name wouldn't end up in Nessarose's hands this year. There's only so little I can do for the boy, and while I don't know the upcoming year's _special _surprise, I'm sure it wouldn't be pretty."

He turned his back and was about to open the door when the baker's words made him pause. "I'm still your friend, Jerome; me and the guys from the old days. And if things get too heavy, you know where to find us." Faces flashed before his eyes. Glenn Stork and Greasy Sae from the Seam, and Delbert and Alice Gray whose apothecary shop stood just across the street from Caleb's bakery. He was then reminded of Greasy's younger brother who died under his wing a year after his bitter victory. He nodded and walked out the door with the overhead bell ringing merrily behind him, reminded of why he preferred reclusion to companionship.

In the morning of the Victor's Parade, Jerome found himself looking out the window through slotted blinds. His study – a room that was ironically devoid of books and stationery – was originally situated downstairs adjacent to the kitchen, but when Stella Messiah, his mother and remaining kin, died of a chronic heart ailment he found it best to relocate the study to where the deceased woman used to sleep. It had proved to be a daunting task; Stella was a hoarder and left several of her possessions piled up in the closet and on the shelves, collecting dust. The mentor struggled to empty the old bedroom of her belongings so that he could make room for the massive oak table and the matching bookshelves, while he stuffed her possessions in the old study – he didn't have the heart to throw them out because, as much as he hated to admit it, his mother's tendency to hoard unnecessary objects had been passed down to him – and locked it for good measure; he had no plans to open that room again. So to say, the room adjacent to the kitchen had become nothing but a stockroom full of memories; a haunted area where he kept his ghosts. Jerome did not regret his decision for he liked how the window in his new study had been strategically placed to afford a view of his visitors, which came rarely and unexpectedly, as they stood outside his door. Today, he looked down on a tall, muscular man clad in an all-white warfare uniform, complete with a helmet and a bulletproof armor. Beverly Vega – he preferred to be called _'Buck.'_ The name was not suitable for a man of his rank, and was a running joke amongst his platoon.

Buck was deployed from District 2 four years ago to become the head peacekeeper of 12. It was said that he was chosen for the job because he was industrious, hardworking, and had a strong sense of justice, but Jerome was yet to see the aforementioned qualities come to play. In fact, the mentor thought that the peacekeeper's re-assignment was a subtle demotion – from an ordinary peacekeeper in the fairly well-off District 2 to a _head_ peacekeeper in the most downtrodden district in all of Panem – because he seemed unable to gain the respect of his comrades. As expected, Buck was vigilant during his first few months as head; rules against poaching and selling illegal items were heavily implemented. But as the moon waxed and waned, he discovered the helplessness of the district's situation. It was difficult to keep the woods barricaded from illegal hunters when the supply of electricity was anything but reliable, and he was starting to long for the taste of meat. Once more, the poachers ran wild and people like Greasy served questionable meals to those who were willing to pay for it, while Buck was reduced to running errands, like driving the escort to the Justice Building on reaping day, or fetching Jerome to meet with this year's victor and his entourage. Those were things his youngest member, Romulus Cray, could do but Buck needed purpose so he did even the most trivial things himself.

"Jerome," the peacekeeper called out as he scanned the windows for any sign of life. "You still there? Mayor Kinney is asking for your presence at the station."

The mentor did not enjoy the annual tradition of shaking hands with the victors on their victory tours and was tempted to let Buck call out to him until his throat was sore and his voice, hoarse. But age had made the old victor passive and resigned so, with a scratch of his head, Jerome went downstairs and, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, opened the door to alert the peacekeeper of his presence.

Together, the two men walked down the deserted streets of the Victors' Village all the way to the station, passing the converging crowd at the square in front of the justice building. There were children and adults alike, standing under the glare of the sun. The merchants and the coal miners stood side by side in their work clothes (aprons and coal-stained nails and over-alls were the common attire), waiting for the arrival of the District 1 victor and his entourage. Their voices mingled in idle conversation as they tried to assuage their children's cries of impatience, or conversed with their fellows to pass the time. Jerome could not help but notice the unmistakable expression of resignation amongst the multitude, and he felt a twinge of guilt and looked away, but not before noticing a girl of about twelve years talking to her father; the bookseller and his daughter. The mentor caught the girl's eye and she smiled and waved at him, her blue eyes shining with the innocence and cheer only a child could possess. He smiled back and turned his attention to Buck, all the while thinking that kids like her should not have to face tribulation – because they did not stand a chance.

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A/N: This chapter is pretty short, and yes, has very little to do with Effie. I promise the next chapter is going to be all about Effie. So please bear with me.

Reviews are very much welcome, and I do hope to receive feedback from y'all. Please and thank you. Hope you had fun reading. :)


	3. A Girl and her Precious Book

A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters

A/N: Thank you to my anonymous reviewer (Guest). It's really nice to receive a feedback from you. It made my day. I thought I should thank you here because I cannot send you a message. Anyway, I would also like to thank those who are following the fic. I updated early because I may not be able to do so next week. I'm actually planning on updating every two weeks, now (instead of doing it weekly) because I'm having a bad block. I know what's going to happen next, but I cannot write it down. I tried reading - it usually takes away the block - but it didn't work. So yeah, I think I need to clear my head. Anyway, do enjoy chapter two, and feel free to drop a review, mates!

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Chapter 2

In the wee hours of morning, while the stars continued to punch holes in the velvety darkness of the sky, and the moon, in its glorious ever-changing form, shone brightest, Effie Trinket would sit on her desk with a large, thick volume laid out before her. The browning edges of the paper were indicative of its age, but while some pages were dogeared and folded, its purpose was yet served, and it would remain so for many years to come.

It was a present from her father on her sixth birthday – the book – and she marveled at the size and the weight of it. She remembered having traced the contours of its hardbound cover with her small and delicate fingers, and her mouth gaped in an 'o' when she first touched the embossed design that curled and spiraled on its forest green facade. She hurriedly opened it and flipped through the pages, eager to read the contents of her newly acquired possession, but was heartily disappointed when she found that the pages were blank. Still, she feigned a smile to hide her dismay, for she knew that her father had gotten it for her. But her eyes ceased to shine with delight; it did not take long for Richard to sense his daughter's disappointment. He knew that he had to explain the object's purpose, for he was sure that she would appreciate it greatly if she understood what it was for.

"Effie," he said, "do you know why these pages have not a drop of ink in them?"

Effie looked up at her father, her vibrant azure eyes meeting his subdued cornflower ones. She had always admired her father's gentle eyes, although his thick-framed glasses made them seem forgettable and plain. His beaky nose and thin lips did nothing to maim his gentle countenance, and his eyebrows were perpetually raised in inquiry. His hair was the color of sand and his round face was white and pale. He would speak to her tenderly, yet firmly, and she would be compelled to listen.

"Because what I've given you is not a book, but an opportunity." He scanned her pretty little face and saw that her eyebrows were raised in question – the only physical trait she had gotten from him. "An opportunity to fill these lifeless pages with your thoughts and feelings. It is your imagination that would enliven this otherwise desolate book."

Effie was enraptured with the notion of writing her own book, and with a big smile that showed a missing front tooth, she hugged her father and chanted a series of _'thank yous' _against his ear. For months, she stared vacantly at the book, which she placed on top of her desk, and wondered and fantasized about the many wonderful things she would write down. However, she eventually felt disappointed with herself and her lack of ideas. And this disappointment was reflected on her countenance when she sat on the dinner table with her head resting against her tiny hand.

"What seems to be the problem, princess?" Richard was accustomed to his daughter being so enthusiastic and jovial – always insisting to set the table just to show him that she was no longer a '_baby' – _but she appeared to be in the deepest of troubles, and he felt compelled to sympathize with his daughter's woes, however petty they may be.

Effie bit her lower lip, wanting to keep her troubles to herself, but her mouth had a mind of its own, and while the words that pass out of her lips were never senseless – at least not for a girl of six years – it annoyed her to no end that she cannot seem to keep it shut – a quality she undoubtedly inherited from her mother, his father had once said.

"The present you gave me is so beautiful, daddy," she sighed, "and I'm afraid that my inep – ineptu – inept – "

"ineptitude," her father finished for her.

" – ineptitude at writing anything good would only sully its beauty."

Richard sat down across from Effie and he, too, rested his head against his hand, but his countenance, unlike his daughter's, was that of amusement. He was so fond of his little girl, and his heart swelled with pride at her purity and innocence.

"My dear," he said, "my present to you is but an empty object. It will never glow with beauty unless you fill it." He paused for a while and met her gaze. "Now, perhaps you do not know what to write down. If so, why don't you keep log of your daily adventures? One day, you'll look back at those wonderful days of youth and innocence, and see how joyful and kind life had been, despite your hardships."

Effie's eyes were alit with a warmth that could only come from someone who had a great idea. After her father had served dinner, she went straight to her room and grabbed the pen on her desk. She hastily opened the book and on its first page, with the messy handwriting of a child, she wrote her first account.

_February 17, 2xxx_

_I am Effie Trinket and I am a happy little girl. I live above my daddy's bookshop and everyday I have adventures there. Once, I trained a dragon, and then I made a potion that could make me shrink, like that girl named Alice! But drinking it made me cruel, so I became an evil witch and I tried to take over the little people's kingdom. I also plundered (I learn many difficult words from daddy, and this one means 'steal') from them, like a bandit would. And then I formed a pirate crew, and I was captain. I was so conssum'd by evil, but then daddy found me, and he kissed me on the nose to drive away the evil, and I became the princess of the Bookshop Kingdom!_

_The Bookshop Kingdom is found in this land called Districk 12. Districk 12 is the most beautiful land in the whole wide world. It's so full of coal, and dust, and soil. And on winters, it's really cold. But on spring wild flowers grow on the meadows, and sometimes, daddy takes me there to see the beautiful fields and play with the other children. The people here are so beautiful! There are people who have olive skin and black or brown hair. Their eyes are nice and gray, sometimes silver. And then there are people who are like me and dad. Blond and blue-eyed. Mayor Kinney is also blond, and he has blue eyes._

_I'll be writing all about Districk 12 and the Bookshop Kingdom because this is my home. The Hunger Games season is especially interesting because everyone has to gather in front of the justice building and watch it. Don't tell anyone, but it's groosome, and I don't wanna watch it. But that old man who looks like a white lion, President Snow, forces us to watch. Anyway, it's really strange, because I see older kids get picked out to join the games, but they never come back. Only Mr. Messiah comes back, and he's never happy when he does. Also, they never like it when Ms. Nessarose comes around to pick out the kids' names. They view her like a monster, but I think she's really pretty – with her really strange costtoom and the colors on her face. It looks good on her tan skin. _

_It's late, and I have to go. Daddy will come up and check on me any minute, and he won't be very happy to find me in my dayclothes, unclean and not yet in bed. _

It was this entry that greeted the girl everyday, and for a while, several of her entries revolved around the same theme and voice. But as Effie grew up, she started to write more factual and accurate accounts of the happenings in her hometown. She had been eight years old when the imperfections of her home had been made clear to her, and it was at this time when she started cutting and pasting newspaper articles in her journal, along with her personal reports of the important events that took place in 12.

It was not uncommon for the poverty-stricken citizens of District 12 to lose their fathers at a tender age. With such a loss came the end of carefree days, and the beginning of perpetual hardships that the children would carry to their graves. With a dead father, an uneducated mother, and four younger sisters, Quincy Parker's fate was sealed. He was a beautiful boy with dark hair and silver eyes, but his young muscles were overwrought and his bony flesh was heavily exploited. The day he turned twelve was the day he made a deal with the devil – the possibility of dying in a hellish arena in exchange for his and his family's present survival. His monthly provisions left more to be desired, for a little flour and grain could not keep them all alive. Because of this, he worked odd jobs for but a few coins that would somewhat sustain their impoverished lifestyle. In the afternoons, he worked for the Mellarks, carrying sacks of flour. It was a simple task, and truth be told, there was no need for Quincy's services, but there, he was given more than what he could possibly ask for because Caleb, the patriarch, was kind and generous to all. In the evenings, the boy loaded sacks of coal into the train and wondered if it would be possible for him to hide behind the cargo and start anew in the Capitol, but he had a mother to assist and four sisters to feed so he never tried, and with a sigh, he watched the train as it gradually gained speed and disappeared into the distance. However, it was on his early morning paper route when he met his closest friend.

It was the beginning of autumn – two months after his fourteenth birthday – and he needed extra money for his allowance, so he worked as a paperboy. On one of his rounds, he saw a seven-year-old Effie Trinket. She was a curious little thing, with her pretty oval-shaped face and her large cerulean eyes. Her teeth were much too big for her – although it was a well-known fact that children usually grow into them. She wore a loose-fitting white shirt with her pale pink pajama bottoms, and her honey-blonde locks were in a tangled mess. She stood under the awning of her father's bookshop, seemingly lost in her own world, when the paperboy – riding the bicycle he used for his rounds – took notice of her.

"Hey, kid!" She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. From the gentle glow of the setting moon, Quincy could make out her features. "A bit too early for daydreams, don't you think?" It was a harmless remark; a friendly acknowledgement towards an unusual intruder to his tedious routine. But the little girl found his probing invasive, so she crinkled her freckled nose in annoyance and pursed her lips, as if trying her hardest not to speak ill of him.

"And what about you," she responded, not at all pleased with his remark, "isn't it a little too early to be riding your bike around town?"

Quincy shrugged and unmounted his bike. "Not if you're the paperboy," was his reply. He then walked towards the bookshop and gave the girl one of the rolled newspapers from his bag.

"What's this?" she asked, eyeing the newspaper with curiosity. She unfurled the roll and found that it was filled with words far too advanced for her understanding (not because they were big words, but because she did not understand much about current affairs), and pictures of people she never knew existed.

"How could you not know what that is?" Quincy asked, "I deliver it to your doorstep everyday!"

"Well, I've never seen it before," Effie sounded defensive.

"That, little girl, is utter crap," the boy said, but the little girl raised an eyebrow, and he relented. "It's called a newspaper, but you can hardly call the stuff in there news."

The sky had turned into a fusion of red and indigo, and the sunrays can no longer hide from the eastern horizon, but its light was not bright enough for reading, so Effie squinted and tried to make out letters under the meager glow the sun afforded her.

"Why does it not pass for news?" she asked, and looked up at the older boy. "Who are you, anyway?"

"The name's Quincy. Quincy Parker. " he said. "And if you look closely at the paper you are holding, you'll see that its contents are just for shit and giggles."

"I'm Effie Trinket," she replied, and again focused on deciphering the contents of the paper in her hands. "and I do not appreciate your atrocious abuse of the English language."

In big bold letters, she read:

**Theodore Abernathy Assigned as New Head Gamemaker after Marcus Reasoner's Retirement**

Below the headline was a picture of a dark-haired man with deep gray eyes, his fingers entwined, as if deep in thought.

"What does that mean for us?" she asked, looking up.

"Beats me," replied Quincy, scratching his nose. "Why does it matter who the new head gamemaker is? It's still going to be as cruel as last year's games."

"What does a head gamemaker do?" Effie asked, intrigued. She'd seen Marcus Reasoner before, but all he'd done was talk about the greatness of the Hunger Games.

Quincy laughed. "Why does it even interest you, kid? Our newspaper is just some stupid propaganda to make the Hunger Games look good, or something like that. If you turn a few pages, you'll see their special about this year's victor – Berthold Willis from 2 – and his new hobby of training bulldogs. And at the back, you'll see the ruins of District 13; a precious reminder, they say. Nothing of substance can be found there. And besides, a few years from now you'll understand what a gamemaker does, and you'll curse him for it."

"It's better than knowing nothing, at all," Effie said. "Say, Quincy, may I keep this?"

"It's all yours. It's not everyday someone takes interest in the newspaper I throw on people's doorsteps. You'll be my first subscriber. But if you want fresh news everyday, you better wait for me outside. I think your dad may be throwing them papers away."

A routine had been established between them after that fateful day. Every morning, at 5:30, Effie would sit at the doorstep with a glass of warm milk at hand, and the sound of Quincy's bike as it crushed the fallen leaves alerted her of his presence. He would give her the paper in exchange for warm milk, and if he came early, they had the luxury of making light conversation for a few minutes while watching the orange leaves pirouette on their way to the ground . He was approximately six years her senior, and he had a lot to share. The days grew colder and the snow began to fall, and while Effie covered herself with a warm woolen blanket, Quincy walked in his ragged scarf and sweatshirt. One morning, he came with a heavy bundle in his hands and handed it to her.

"For all the years of stupidity you've missed, kid," he said, "Happy birthday."

"How did you manage to collect all these?" Effie asked, amazed. Her eyes widened when she looked at the year written above one of the papers. "Hey, this is in my birthyear!" she gushed.

"I told you, it's everything you missed out on!"

Effie swore to give her friend something nice on his fifteenth birthday, but it was not to be, because when winter came to pass and the land was once again made fertile by the refreshing spring showers, Nessarose Hagedorn arrived. And when she called out the name of this year's unfortunate young man, Effie felt a stabbing pain pierce through her guts. Quincy Parker's name echoed throughout the square, and he came up the stage with nothing but a look of resignation on his face, typical of any District 12 resident.

She visited the paperboy inside the justice building before he left for the Capitol, and handed him a farewell gift.

"Peter Pan," he read the front page.

"He's the boy who never grew up." she said. "Dad doesn't like it much. He said that living in daydreams and unawareness forever is not a good thing, but I think it's a good story."

"Seems fitting," he replied. "Because I will never grow up to be a man." He looked at his young friend and smiled. Their friendship was short-lived, but their bond was strong. The few months he shared with Effie was a beacon of light amidst difficult times. "I guess this is goodbye, eh, kid?"

"Promise you'll come back, Quincy," she cried.

"I don't make promises I can't keep," he said as he patted her head. "I won't start now."

Effie threw herself at the older boy and sobbed like a child who was about to lose her older brother forever, and in her case, it was probably true. She held onto him like her life depended on it and Romulus Cray had a difficult time trying to separate her from Quincy.

The next time she saw him was on the television. Quincy Parker's eyes were forever closed in an endless sleep; some of his blood seeped through his clothes, and some was absorbed by the sandy earth. In that accursed moment, Effie Trinket finally understood why Nessarose Hagedorn was feared, and why Jerome Messiah always returned home with a heavy heart. The journal entry she wrote on the night of her friend's death was smudged with tears.

_June xx, 2xxx_

_Theodore Abernathy had proved to be a ruthless head gamemaker (I now understand what he does, and Quincy was right, I do curse him for it); probably worse than the guy named Marcus Reasoner. This year's arena has no life whatsoever – just an endless sea of sand and dried grass. I guess Quincy's early death was a blessing, and at least he managed to live until the end of spring, before he got called out to contend in the Hunger Games. I hope he got to read the book I gave him during the two weeks he spent training. I wonder if he thought that he shouldn't grow up, too. Maybe that way, he wouldn't have to be part of the Games. _

She did not sleep that night, and instead, watched as the clock ticked and tocked until its hands were pointed at her favorite time of day. As always, she sat on the bookshop's doorsteps – under the awning – and waited for the steady sound of a moving bicycle. Soon, the new paperboy arrived. He was much younger, around ten years of age, and while he pedaled, his pleasant singing voice echoed throughout the neighborhood.

"Virgil Everdeen," he introduced himself, and noticing that the girl's eyes were rimmed red, he handed her the newspaper. "Sorry for your loss, bookshop girl."

Virgil left as quickly as he arrived, and Effie unfolded the paper he left for her. There, in print, was the face of her departed friend, along with six others who died at the Cornucopia. She ran back into her bedroom and grabbed a pair of scissors. She cut out the article with precision and pasted it on her journal, below last night's entry. She then grabbed the pile of newspaper she received on her birthday and began cutting and pasting. It was only fair to give Quincy a space in her journal, because he had been an important part of her childhood.

Four years had passed since that unfortunate incident, and Effie sat under the dim light of her battery-operated desk lamp as she wrote about the 49th victory parade.

_August 30, 2xxx_

_Spark McBride came marching down the streets of District 12 with all the pride a victor could muster. He was the very same boy who killed Myrtle Jenkins and Arthur Douglas. I sensed the disquiet amongst the crowd, and even Mr. Messiah, our lone victor and mentor, appeared to despise the 49th Hunger Games' victor. But our people are humble and resigned, and while Spark made an audacious speech about the Capitol's greatness and generosity, the crowd only gritted their teeth and looked up at the platform. _

_Personally, I have no problem with Spark McBride. He was a Career, and it was only natural for him to take pride in his victory (I'm not saying it's a good thing to take pride in killing others, however, his arrogance was very much anticipated, and thus, it's easier to move on from hating him). And if I compare him to the victors from District 2, Spark becomes the epitome of humility, and that is saying something. However, I do sympathize with the Jenkinses and the Douglases because I know how it feels to stand at the square and listen as the murderer of your loved one speak so fervently about the Games that orchestrated the whole affair. Well, not exactly. I do know how it feels to lose a loved one to the Games, though. My friend, Quincy, was killed, too – although not by the victor. Even still, I was so furious when that boy from District 11 came with his entourage. He wasn't even all that bad. He just stood there, forcing himself to wave his remaining hand (he lost his other arm in the Hunger Games). I could tell that all he wanted was to live through the Games. Not fame, not fortune, just survival. Perhaps I detested him because he's the one who survived, not my friend. And maybe it's not fair to dislike him so much. But I digress, this is about the 49th Hunger Games, not the the one from all those years ago. _

Effie looked up from her journal as the cool morning air carried the familiar voice of Virgil Everdeen. She could tell, from the clarity of the words he sang, that the paperboy was still at a considerable distance from her home, but as he pedaled on, the muffled words became more distinct.

_**Oh, come and see the paradise**_

_**That doesn't have a name.**_

_**Destroyed by rule of fire and ice,**_

_**Oh, what a crying shame.**_

_**In greed and pride they meet demise,**_

_**It was their nation's bane.**_

_**Oh, come and see the paradise,**_

_**Your looking glass, it maims.**_

Without another word, she capped her pen and ran downstairs, eager to get a hold of the newspaper. It had become Effie's new routine after her friend's passing; she would eagerly await the broadsheets – although they do not contain much substance – and read the articles to be found. She threw away the lifestyle section without a second thought, but she made it her business to know the happenings in the Capitol – which was the capital city of Panem – regardless of how little it says about the true situation of her country. _'it's better than nothing,' _she thought. If she found something of interest, she would cut and paste it in her journal.

In her hands, the once empty pages of the book became a connection to the world outside her district, and at the same time the almanac of her personal life.

She opened the door and found Virgil standing outside with her newspaper at hand. He gave it to her, and she said the customary _'thank you.' _

Through the years, the two did not become particularly close, but they were friendly enough. They saw a lot of each other in school, and not once did they talk. However, they gave each other small nods of acknowledgement, and went on their separate ways. Effie surrounded herself with the company of other twelve-year-old girls, while Virgil mingled with kids his age. Among his friends were Gabriel Hawthorne and Hazelle Gibbs. He was also rather close with the Donner twins and their friend, Cristobel Gray.

Effie was about to close the door when Virgil suddenly spoke.

"Wait," he said. "Uh, do you have a book?"

"My dad's running a bookshop, Virgil," she said, not unkindly. "Of course we have books. Could you be a little more specific? Category? Subject? Author?"

"What about a book about herbal medicine?" Virgil said. "Do you have one of those?"

Effie raised an eyebrow. Virgil Everdeen looked like someone who would save his money to purchase a songbook, and his interest in plants had taken her by surprise. However, there were rumors that the paperboy –along with some of his friends – had a habit of crossing the electric fence to hunt for game, which was illegal, but life was tough and she had no right to judge.

"It's for Cristobel, bookshop girl," he continued, "see, it's her birthday tomorrow, and I wanna get her something nice. Sal Mellark's baking her a cake and I think I have to top that, if y'know what I mean."

One would be a fool to not understand the extent of Virgil's affections for Cristobel Gray. And even Effie, who did not fully understand the concept of love and attraction, understood what the paperboy implied. The apothecaries' daughter was indeed captivating, with her flaxen hair, light blue eyes, and calm demeanor; it was not a surprise that young men her age are fawning over her.

"We do have what you're looking for, but why would you want to get her a book about herbal medicine?" Effie asked. "Mr. and Mrs. Gray are apothecaries, and Cristobel probably knows everything there is to know about plants."

Virgil thought about it for a moment, and figured that the younger girl was probably right. "Do you have anything else in mind, bookshop girl?" he asked.

She sighed and swung the door wide open. It was way too early for business, yet there she was, welcoming their first customer of the day. "Follow me, paperboy," she said as she tried to switch on the light. "Still no electricity, huh," she whispered to herself as she grabbed the flashlight from the counter and disappeared into the shelves. Virgil followed after Effie and was alarmed when he saw her climbing up the ladder despite the insufficient lightsource.

"You might fall, bookshop girl," he said.

Effie answered with a muffled _'no,' _for she held the flashlight sideways, between her lips. She did not notice the worried look on Virgil's face; she was too busy reaching for a book on the far side of the shelf. When she finally took hold of it, she stepped down from the ladder carefully and handed the paperboy his purchase. She pointed the light at the object's direction and he flipped the pages of the thick, medium-sized hardbound – empty.

"What the heck is this?" Virgil's brow was raised in inquiry.

"It's a journal," Effie replied. "I think it would be nicer to give her a book she could fill with her knowledge on plants."

"You are brilliant, bookshop girl," he said, "but how much is it?"

She told him the price and his jaw dropped. Virgil was a boy from the Seam, and he could not even afford to buy bread. He'd been saving money for Cristobel's birthday present, but even with the money he saved, the journal was still too expensive for him.

"You could pay in installment," Effie offered, "no interest. My father would not mind. I mean, it's better than nothing. Customers are scarce, and we have a living to make."

"Are you sure?" Virgil asked.

"I am certain, paperboy," she said. "just sign some papers promising that you'll pay and we're done."

Virgil thanked Effie and came out with the journal in his bag. He muttered something about returning the favor, but the bookseller's daughter did not understand how. The next day, he would give Cristobel the journal and tell her how nice the bookshop girl was – accommodating him before sunrise and even giving him a brilliant idea when he had none (of course, he did not say anything about his agreement to pay in installment for it would make the object of his affection feel guilty about accepting his gift). The fair-haired girl would then jest, telling him that perhaps the little girl had a crush on Virgil and his wonderful voice, but he would only shake his head and laugh. He knew the bookshop girl was in love with anything that had words in it, and had little opinion about boys.

And he was right, because the moment he left the shop, she ran upstairs and unfolded the newspaper, scanning through the headlines for something interesting.

She found it immediately.

**2nd Quarter Quell: Theodore Abernathy's Vision**

A photo of the aforementioned man was right under it, and his piercing gray eyes sent unpleasant shivers down Effie's back. She had a bad feeling about this.

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A/N: So there's a little something about our Effie Trinket. Well, you're probably wondering how someone so innocent and harmless could possibly win the Hunger Games. Well, we just have to wait and see. I'll be back two weeks later. Please do review, maybe it'll give me a little boost. I think I may be running out of words... is that even possible?

Anyway, I'm having a bit of a migraine, so I wasn't able to triple check this. I only re-read it once, so if you see any errors, please do point it out so that I could change it. Thank you.


	4. The Tragedy in Luxury

A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

A/N: I am back, mates! First of all, I would like to thank everyone who reviewed and followed my fic, and those who liked and reblogged my updates on Tumblr. I've received some anonymous reviews from you guys, and could not thank you personally, so I am taking this opportunity to thank you. I hope you enjoy this one, mates.

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Chapter 3

Theodore Abernathy sat on a metallic three-legged stool that was precariously balanced on the pristine glass flooring of the gamemakers' hovercraft. In front of him was the holographic layout of his latest and most cruel masterpiece: the 2nd Quarter Quell Arena. After long, grueling years of hard work and mind-numbing thinking, the physical set-up was finally completed, and the head gamemaker was now orchestrating the vile surprises within the gigantic stadium of gore and bloodbath. He was unable to hide the overwhelming joy that filled his heart. His greatest project, which had begun the day he was assigned as the head gamemaker, was almost done. His smile had a certain quality in it as he admired the scene – the way his bow-shaped lips would part to reveal his teeth, which were whiter than pearls and slightly crooked (a quality that only made him more attractive). It was comparable to a child's nasty grin when he had been afforded the opportunity to murder a helpless colony of ants as they marched down their anthill with determination. It was only a matter of time. He knew that his arena would make history.

With the press of a button, the holographic layout was gone, replaced by the actual image of the man-made Eden. The panorama was so surreal that even he could not believe his own eyes. The vibrant reds and blues of the berries and fruits were so enticing, so agonizingly mouth-watering, that one could not rest until he plucked a fruit out of its parent and put it in his mouth to taste. The lake was clear as glass, and in the glow of the artificial sun that was much brighter than the real thing, the waters sparkled, like there were stars and jewels down below. Come nighttime, when Theodore would dictate that the ever-circular satellite be released from where it slept, the stars would come out of hiding, and their tiny, twinkling lights would be mirrored by the already glistening lake. These waters generously flowed throughout the arena in winding channels like liquefied silver, and were accessible to anyone who wished to cup his hands and quench his thirst. The fields were lush and green – no other grass could ever be greener – and wildflowers dotted the ocean of grass with yellows, purples, and pastel pinks. The trees towered over the ground, and their branches danced and swayed, while flocks of birds soared high all over the blues and whites of the firmament. It was unthinkable for death to wrap itself insidiously around a mantle of immaculate beauty while it waited for its prey, but the wonder and ingenuity of it all was that, it did. And while most people would curse the arena's deceptive nature, the head gamemaker would only nod his head in satisfaction because in his eyes, treachery made his creation magnificent.

'_Nothing is ever what it seems,' _he said on his interview a few weeks ago.

He was drawn out of his reverie when the voice of Dante Crane cracked through his earpiece.

"Are we to subdue the beasts?" Dante asked his superior.

Theodore pushed the button and the layout reappeared, and he readjusted the microphone so that it was closer to his lips.

"Yes," he said, "put them in their respective places, my friend." His voice was calm, yet powerful enough to ebb the raging seas. "After all, we wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for our _guests_, now, do we?"

The head gamemaker watched from the monitor as his team loaded the muttations – beasts that were developed to possess extraordinary qualities; they were once used as weapons and gadgets to battle the District rebels in the pre-Hunger Games era – into one of the hovercrafts. They were to be released from containment when the right time comes.

"Dante, please do check if the rain machine is working as it should," Theodore laced his fingers; his freshly manicured nails were the final additions to his crisp appearance. His pinstripe dress shirt, light gray suit, and black leather shoes made him look fine, and his clean-shaven face made him look younger than forty-three. However, the streak of silver locks on the sides of his dark brown hair gave him away. But he was a beautiful man (despite his vile disposition), so these strands were heralded as the mark of his wisdom and experience as gamemaker. The pale bluish light the holographic monitor gave off added a sinister feel to his countenance. "We do not want our lovely young tributes to die of dehydration, after all."

"Yes, sir," Dante said on the other line, and all of a sudden, a torrential downpour swept over the verdant fields of the Quarter Quell arena.

"Good work," Theodore said.

"Should I stop the machine, now?" his junior asked.

"No, no. Just let it stay that way for a while."

The head gamemaker synchronized the machine with his device, and touched the raincloud on the holographic layout. His deep silver eyes were alit with pleasure as the heavy rains came into a sudden halt. Theodore delighted in controlling the flow of nature, or anything else, for that matter. It was his obsession, and because of this idiosyncrasy, being head gamemaker suited him well. His job gave him all the control he could ever want; it allowed him to play god. However, his range of power had limits. He was, of course, under President Snow's command, but he thought it was a small price to pay for all the luxuries he was afforded.

And then, there was his son.

In the Abernathy Manor, Haymitch Abernathy stood impatiently in his Egyptian cotton pajamas while his mother clapped and greeted him a happy birthday. It was the first Saturday of the schoolyear, and he planned on sleeping in. However, his mother, the renowned designer Isabelle Dubois-Abernathy, had other plans for him as she entered his room unannounced – the key dangling on her slender finger – with a cart-pulling avox at her heel. He looked at the tower of chocolate cake on the cart; at the apex of the mouth-watering delight were the numbers one and six. _'She had come in goodwill,' _he grumbled in his mind. He did not enjoy these waylay visits from his mother, but she looked so happy that he relented, and smiled. The avox lighted the candles and Isabelle pushed him with the strength he never knew she had.

"Make a wish, my little Mitchie," she said with her thick Capitol accent, and he cringed. Not because of the mortifying nickname his mother had called him, but because she was wearing thick layers of makeup again. And when her makeup was too thick, he had learned it to mean that she was hiding something.

The sixteen-year-old looked at his joyful mother, and then at the unspeaking servant who offered him a small smile – a greeting, he construed, that he acknowledged with an imperceptible nod. Through years of relentless servitude offered to him, Haymitch had learned to trust the old avox, Phineas, even though his father told him that avoxes were not to be trusted. _'Well, the same rule applies to you, dear Father,' _he would remind himself. He leaned over and blew out the candles; he'd make a wish, like his mother had suggested, but he'd grown out of such childishness a long time ago, the night he saw his mother barefaced, and bloodied.

Haymitch tried to erase the gruesome images from his memory, but he found himself remembering that particular night when he woke up in his Victorian-style bedroom – which was a design Isabelle had chosen for the whole mansion – with a need to relieve himself from a full bladder. The only illumination in his room came from the pale white light of his digital alarm clock, a device that did not fit in anywhere in his home, and he held onto his bedpost while his feet found their way into his soft, furry slippers. Sleepily, he dragged himself out of the room, and walked the long, well-lighted hallway in search of the bathroom, but the sound of muffled screams reached his ears, and forgetting the cause of his premature awakening, the twelve-year-old boy ran towards its source.

Each room in the mansion was soundproof, but in Theodore's haste, he forgot to close the door, and from that tiny crack, the boy saw his hurting mother – bruised and scratched from the beating she was receiving from her husband. Haymitch's heart pounded against his chest, and a warm, streaming liquid soaked his pajama bottoms, but he daren't move. He so wanted to push the door wide open and run towards Isabelle – put his arms around her to protect her – but his feet were glued to the floor, and his olive-colored face was as white as a freshly laundered sheet. The boy was watching the man he aspired to become hitting the first woman he ever loved. He did not notice the tears streaming down his face, nor did he feel Phineas' gentle grip as the avox pulled him away from the dreadful scene. All he could see was Theodore's face – a face that was almost similar to his own – punching, kicking, and scratching his beautiful mother.

Haymitch was pulled out from this reverie when he felt a soft, silken fabric being wrapped around his eyes. His dark-colored eyebrows were creased in annoyance – he hated surprises – and he sucked on his teeth as he shook his head. He could almost feel his mother's radiant, yet somewhat broken smile directed at him, and he found himself unable to protest when she gently gave him a push – a sign that something special awaited him outside, and that he should walk towards this special gift. Isabelle had a tendency to dote on her only son, and his sixteenth birthday gave her an excuse to shower him with extravagant gifts.

"What are you up to, Mother?" His voice sounded less than enthusiastic as he tried to walk down the staircase with a blindfold, holding onto Phineas and Isabelle for support.

"Don't be impatient, love," Isabelle replied in a singsong voice as she excitedly led him downstairs. She failed to notice the exasperation in her son's tone. She was too busy directing Haymitch's path, trying to keep him from sliding off the stairs, and eventually from the varnished mahogany furniture that may bruise his toes and knees.

Haymitch felt the soft carpet against his bare feet, and he wondered what could be so special that his mother had forgotten to nag him about his slippers. _'Maybe she got me one of those freakish hovershoes, and customized it so that it would be encrusted with expensive jewels and crap.' _He shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to float around campus like a pixie, he mused, but to float around campus like a pixie whilst wearing bejeweled shoes was something else completely. _'Popularity was fun while it lasted.' _He was removed from his thoughts when he heard the '_swish' _of their metallic front door – the only modern thing in their otherwise antiquated abode, aside from his digital clock. His feet had left the carpeted floors of their house, and he stood at the cold marble doorstep, in front of their long, circular driveway. His mother loosened the blindfold, and Haymitch squinted as the white morning sunrays burned his silver irises. He almost did not notice the brand new silver sports car parked in front of him. _Almost._

The aforementioned vehicle glistened in the sunlight, its windows tinted black. With one click of a button, the door opened with a _'whoosh,' _revealing a spacious interior and soft black leather seats that invited one to sit and feel the luxury of being young and rich. Haymitch's thin mouth that usually lined his face was agape, and his eyes scanned the entirety of his newly received possession. He could see his sharp features reflected on the glossy paint of the car – his chiseled mandible, strong aquiline nose, and wide-set eyes, features that were framed by a crown of messy dark-brown hair, did not betray the surprise he felt towards the unexpected gift. Isabelle noted the look on her son's face and she smiled in satisfaction.

"Do you like your gift, Haymitch?" she asked.

"I – I," He stuttered as he tried to form words in his mouth, "I – ah – it's a bit too extravagant, don't you think?" It had nothing to do with his mother's lavish gift. Haymitch was accustomed to receiving expensive gifts from both parents; it was the feeling that he did not deserve it. Especially not this year, after he had caused trouble in school before the first week was over. Of course, they were yet to receive the news.

Isabelle kissed her son's cheek and patted him at the back. "Nonsense, love," she said. "It's your birthday, and you deserve the best. Besides, I didn't force you to have those driving lessons and exam for naught. Any day now, you shall receive your driving license in the mail. My excellent little boy."

Haymitch forced a smile. "Excellent," he let out a nervous chuckle, all the while thinking of Plutarch's bloodstained uniform. "Of course." He opened his arms wide and enveloped Isabelle in a warm embrace. His eyes found Phineas' and the avox looked back at him with a knowing glint in his blue eyes._'Again, I shall disappoint my already hurting mother.' _He inwardly sighed at the thought. He really was no better than his father.

Haymitch was a very smart and proficient young man. He did well in his academics; perhaps he did not get straight A's like Eric Dugan or Bilius Videbeck – one of his closest friends – but he had never gotten a grade lower than a B. His extra-curricular activities made him popular amongst the young ladies, an inspiration to younger boys, like Seneca Crane, and even an object of envy amongst less attractive, but equally competent young men, like Plutarch Heavensbee – whom he bested at both Fencing and Judo (while Plutarch bested him in Literature and Science). But while he was not one to enjoy the negative attention, Haymitch was impatient and quick to anger, and this quality led him into situations he'd rather not face.

Plutarch was an audacious boy with a sharp tongue, so Haymitch, gave the former a fistful of his mind. It was something Headmaster Octavius Mosby did not appreciate, so he did what any sensible headmaster would do, and sent a holographic mail to his troublemaking student's father. It happened before; Haymitch, in his frustration, would lose his temper and start a fight (only it wasn't really a fight if his opponent was the only one receiving punches), and Headmaster Mosby would intervene, but it never happened on the first Friday of the schoolyear before. So to say, it was not a good start.

"Well, what are you waiting for," Isabelle said, releasing herself from her son's embrace, "why don't you take it out on a spin, see how it suits you, my dear."

She handed him the keys and Haymitch cautiously made his way into the driver's seat. He felt the rubber pads of the pedals on his feet, while he wrapped his hands around the soft leather that encased the steering wheel. He was about to close the door when a black luxury car made its way into the driveway. Haymitch stopped to look at Theodore Abernathy stepping out of the vehicle, a furious mask veiled his usually calm countenance.

"Darling!" Isabelle greeted him. She purposely ignored the angry look that painted her husband's features, opting to welcome him warmly, as she always had. "It's been too long since you've graced us with your presence. Are you here to celebrate our son's birthday?"

She was about to put her arms around Theodore, but he pushed his wife to the side and promptly made his way to his wayward son. The smile she plastered on her heavily made up face disappeared. Isabelle was used to her husband's bouts of fury, but never had he taken it out on their child. She watched in astonishment as Theodore took Haymitch by the collar and hurled curses his way.

"_Damn you_, child," he snarled, "After years of feeding you, educating you, and giving you _more _than you could ever want. You repay us with your grotesque ingratitude!"

Theodore pulled Haymitch out of the silver car and shoved him to the concrete. The boy only looked at him with burning contempt as his father straddled him and threw strong debilitating punches his way. Isabelle ran towards the two men – her tall heels clicking with each step – and tried to hold off the older man, but he shoved her with his arm and she fell to the ground, bruising her leg.

"This is why our son is a rotten piece of shit, Isabelle," The woman looked up from where she was sprawled; Theodore towered over her, casting a shadow over the ground. "You spoil him with lavish gifts he does not deserve." He did not have the right to lecture his wife on raising children, for he was also subject to the same errors. He was very fond of Haymitch, especially when the boy was young and impressionable. He was pleased that his son wanted nothing but to become like him. However, things have changed. Haymitch knew Theodore for what he is, and the relationship between father and son had become irreparably torn. "Now look at your boy, woman," he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. "Take a look at that piece of garbage, writhing on the ground like a dying insect; the little vermin."

Isabelle glanced upon her son with pity, and tears streamed down her beautiful face. The trail of tears erased some of the powder and revealed her olive skin – a shade lighter than her son's color. She held onto Theodore, trying to subdue him before he resumed his assault. She had never seen Haymitch in so much pain, and her heart bled for him.

"Please, Theodore," she begged, "whatever he did, it's my fault. My shortcomings had led him to do what is displeasing to you. I deserve the punishment."

Lying on the ground, Haymitch watched as Isabelle tried to protect him from Theodore. He had to bite his cheek to keep his tears at bay. It was not his mother's fault; it was his. But like every other self-centered teen, Haymitch chose to blame someone else for his actions. In his case, he blamed his father. _'Who else in this family carries the gene that programmed me to become so easily enraged?' _he thought. But perhaps it wasn't even an inherent quality; instead, it might be the feeling of perpetual frustration bubbling up inside him. Still, it did not justify his beating of Plutarch Heavensbee into a bloody pulp the day before (he explained to the headmaster that Plutarch was a '_haughty son of a bitch, and he had it coming to him'_). The holographic mail from Mosby was probably sitting in his father's inbox the whole night before he finally found it this morning. He wished that Theodore found it last night, so that his mother would be at her workshop, designing clothes for future District 1 tributes, instead of standing there whilst watching the ugly spectacle unfold before her.

Haymitch was surprised when instead of hurting his mother, Theodore simply removed himself from her grip, and made his way towards him.

"Haymitch," his voice was stern. "Time and time again, I have been patient with you. Octavius sent me messages, but I let you off with a warning. You said that you wanted to become a gamemaker someday. Do you honestly believe that you can make it if you keep on creating trouble in your school?"

"I do not want to become a stupid gamemaker," Haymitch blurted out, his voice was hoarse and his nose bloody. "Not anymore. Not like you." He winced, preparing himself for the worst. "I'll be an escort instead. It's less demanding. All I have to do is wear expensive clothes and pick out names from a fishbowl."

Haymitch wheezed as Theodore's kick landed on his stomach. His mouth spewed out blood, which he wiped behind his hand. He looked at his father whom was raving mad, and his mother whose mouth was covered with her hands. The avox remained by the doorstep, watching wordlessly as his masters' domestic problems unfurled before him. The boy tried to stand, but found that he was too battered, too weak, so he lay still, and laughed at the irony of the situation.

'_Happy birthday to you,_

_This damn place is a zoo.'_

Theodore crinkled his nose. "You disgust me," he said. "You're not even worth it." With those words, he turned his back on his son and decided to spend the rest of the morning in his study. On his way to the house, he passed by his wife, who was paralyzed with fear, and the avox. To the latter, he handed over his car keys.

"Park this for me," he said. And he disappeared into the house.

Haymitch's last memory of that morning was of his mother running towards him and cradling his bruised head on her lap.

That evening, Haymitch woke to the sound of a ringing phone. His eyes were met with darkness, and his hand felt its way to the switch of his lampshade. As the warm yellow light illuminated the room, he made his way towards the phone, regardless of the pain that ailed his sore muscles. The phone's design befitted the rest of the furniture – an antique of some sort – but it had been customized to fit the necessity of the post-apocalyptic era. With a push of a button, the holographic image of Tiffany Nightingale filled the room with a bluish tint. Haymitch could not keep the smile off his face. Tiffany, however, looked aghast.

"What happened to you?" she asked, forgetting the customary cordiality that commenced a friendly phone call. "You did not get into a fight again, did you?"

"Father received mail from Headmaster Mosby," he sighed, "you could only imagine his disappointment. And Fury" He remembered to add.

Tiffany's eyes softened, and she pursed her lips. "I'm so sorry, Haymitch," she said. "I wish I could be there to tend to you."

Haymitch shook his head and touched her heart-shaped face through the holographic image, distorting it as his fingers grazed. It was a lovely face, with big brown eyes, a small, straight nose, and full, pink lips. Her gentle features were framed with silky ebony tresses that reached the small of her back. She was not wearing any make up, which he appreciated greatly.

"You're here now, aren't you?" he said.

"You know that's not what I mean," Tiffany pouted. "I wish I could _actually _be there with you."

"You wouldn't want to get involved in this freak show," he said. "My father is probably beating my poor mother as we speak." Haymitch's voice cracked as he said this. "It's better that you're there, and I, here. We still get to talk, and that's what truly matters to me."

"I love you, Haymitch, do you realize that?" she asked. "You know I'm willing to go through hell with you."

"And you do realize that I feel the same for you, don't you?" was Haymitch's reply. "I would protect you no matter what it takes. I'll never drag you into my messes."

Tiffany looked at him with growing affection, and he returned the sentiment. The girl in front of him, he thought, was his only guiding light. _'And she is enough,' _he thought. She had always been enough.

Haymitch met Tiffany in Kindergarten, while he was still a young boy of five, and he thought that she was the prettiest girl in school. He adored her kindness and her gentle smile. However, she disliked his boastfulness and wished that the smug look on his little face would disappear. But eventually, he became her protector; in the schoolyard, where cruel schoolgirls would try to bring her down with vile words of criticism, he would tell her that she was beautiful – too perfect to belong in a world of homely Capitol girls who covered their plainness with outlandish hairstyles and bright clothing (for even in childhood, simplicity had been a foreign concept in their world; a fact that only Tiffany seemed to be oblivious about). _"Take off those girls' sparkly petticoats and you'll see how ugly they are," _Haymitch used to tell her, _"You see, those sequins reflect the sun, so that light would mask their unattractive looks." _Tiffany would believe him because honesty was one of his good qualities, and he would continue, _"You, on the other hand, allow yourself to let your hair down because it looks like silk, that really soft fabric my mother loves. And your clothes do not look like aluminum foil because the light would only tarnish your prettiness. So, see, you're much better." _They became friends, then. In the corridors, they walked hand in hand, because he feared that if he let go, she would get away. But little did he know that even if he did, she'd stay right beside him, because she loved him, too.

But pretty, little Tiffany had grown up and followed the Capitolian trend. She, too, had fallen victim to the lavishly decorated dresses and thick layers of make up. She styled her hair in peculiar curls, and put ribbons on her silky black tresses. She did it to please her female peers who believed that beauty, grace, and elegance were based solely on the amount of artificial colors on one's body. Haymitch said nothing; he did not seem pleased, but there was no sign that he disliked it, either. He never bothered to tell her to return to her formal self. She played around with her hair and make up some more because her efforts did not seem enough, and she was resolved to do what it takes to hear Haymitch say the words _'you look wonderful.' _But no matter what she did, he never said a word. Adolescence, she found, was all about feeling inadequate about one's worth.

The change in Haymitch had been more subtle. At first, he only lost his boastfulness. He no longer walked around with his chin up while telling everyone that he was the son of a gamemaker. That boastfulness had been replaced by a cold indifference and his honesty by belligerence. His childish impatience had grown into aggression; more than once, he had unlinked his hands from Tiffany's, so that he could curl them into fists and punch the first irritating person he saw. Still, she stood by him, because she knew that it was all for show – his actions were the mask he wore to hide whatever hollowness and pain he felt gnawing at his insides. She believed that while everything changed, their feelings never would – and in a way, it was true. They'd been there for each other through thick and thin, and could not picture spending the rest of their lives with anyone else. They knew that beneath her generously applied make up and his halfhearted smiles – masks that disguised their dissatisfaction with life – their true selves resided, and it kept them sure of each other.

A knock on the door released them from their musings. It was Phineas, bringing the young master his dinner.

"I have to go, Tiff," Haymitch said, reluctant to end their conversation, "they wouldn't want to see me out of bed."

"Rest well, Haymitch," she pushed the button. She was gone. He had forgotten to tell her how much he loved her bare face. She did not want to let him know how much her heart ached when, for a brief moment, he unraveled his true self before her.

Haymitch limped back to his bed and positioned himself before allowing the avox entry to his room. He watched as his servant quietly bowed and arranged his dinner in front of him. The mouth-watering aroma of roast beef and mashed potato filled the room, but Haymitch had no appetite. There was only one thing he wished to know.

"Is Mother well?"

Phineas only turned away. Haymitch knew what the gesture implied.

Later, Haymitch would finally muster the courage to open his door. Only then would he find his mother seated in the living room with one of the female avoxes – Marian, the former doctor – tending to her wounds. He would lean on the banister, a silent spectator to his mother's sorrows. And then his father would arrive late at night with a bouquet of expensive flowers hiding behind his back. It was his form of undoing; he did it more for himself than for his wife. He did it to quell his guilt, that's if he felt any. Haymitch knew the routine so well. He knew that his mother would smile, despite the pain that throbbed from her split lip, and wrap her arms around his father. Just like that, the romance returned to their sad, pitiful lives. Haymitch would bite the insides of his cheek and return to his room, devastated with the superficial display of phony affection, and angry because his life was made smooth by fake smiles and snake oil.

"Another birthday made perfect," he meant it, too, because he was rarely afforded the opportunity to see the ugly truth that surrounded his life.

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A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Reviews are very much welcome. Corrections, criticisms, etc. Thanks. :)


	5. Different Worlds

A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

A/N: This is my longest chapter, ever. I slaved over this for weeks. And I'm not even exaggerating. When I decided to update every 2 weeks, it was because I was working on this chapter. So, yeah. Anyway, thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed, alerted, faved, etc. Thank you to my anonymous friends who sent their reviews. I couldn't thank you personally so let me take this opportunity to extend my gratitude. And Tumblr. YES. Thanks to those who reblogged and liked. It really means a lot. I hope you guys enjoy this one. Oh, and don't forget to read the Author's Note **below **this chapter. :D

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Chapter 4

The sounds of rustling plaited skirts as the girls shifted in their seats mingled with the sharp and metallic sounds of unfastening clasps and unzipping zippers as schoolbags were opened. Mr. Clayton Porth – a tall and gangly man of about fifty-three – had asked everyone to take their books out and turn them to page one hundred and one. At the very back of the class, seated beside the clear fiber glass window that spanned the length and width of the wall, was a less than enthusiastic Haymitch who grumbled to himself while violently flipping through the pages of his leather-bound textbook, threatening to tear them as he went. To his right, a pimply boy with curly brown hair stared at the ugly reddish-purple discoloration on his cheek, mouth agape in awe.

"It's not polite to stare, Dugan," Haymitch's eyes flashed with anger, "you don't see me looking at those pus-draining lesions on your face with fascination, do you?"

The boy's eyes widened and his ears reddened in embarrassment, along with the countless pimples that dotted his face. Haymitch grunted. Sitting through a boring Science class with the most boring teacher in the faculty, beside the ugly and repellent Eric Dugan was not his idea of a pleasant Monday morning. But it was his fate today, and for several Mondays to come. He had to make do.

**The Big Bang Theory and What it Says about the Nature of Our Universe**

The words were written in large, bold print, staring back at Haymitch, as if inviting him to look on but he did not feel compelled to know more about the Universe and its wonders. He found the scenery outside the window infinitely more interesting than the contents of his book, so he turned his face away from his desk, where his book was laid forgotten, and stared fixedly at the picturesque courtyard of Saint Fabiola Preparatory School.

From the fifth floor, Haymitch could see the span of the quadrangle, the loamy soil clothed in velvety green grass kept fresh by the drizzle that sprung forth from the ground. The trees towered over it, casting mosaic-like shadows over the grass as specks of sunlight penetrated through the small gaps between the leaves. Those trees, he knew, were once lush and green, but the seasons had done well, and patches of yellow and rusty orange appeared on their leafy crown. Soon, those leaves would travel towards the ground, circling according to the rhythm of the soft winds, until there's nothing left but the sturdy branches – arthritic hands lifted up in prayer. He began to wonder why people – scientists especially – went out of their way to find intergalactic marvels, when really, the World itself was a ball of secrets waiting to be unraveled. Of course, there were other scientists who took it upon themselves to dig through the many layers of their home planet, but Haymitch deemed Cosmology a pointless Science because the Universe would be nothing but an ever-growing enigma unless humans learned the heart of their own world, first. _'Screw that, we barely even know ourselves.' _But that was just a _humble_ opinion.

Haymitch stopped to look at the tall, metal pole that stood erect in the middle of the landscape, casting a long, slanted shadow across the courtyard. It bore the national flag of Panem, a pristine white banner with a horn overflowing with bread and harvest sewn in the middle – the undying symbol of their country's prosperity. Below was the flag of Saint Fabiola: A silken rectangular fabric of deep purple that bore the school emblem – a golden shield with a wreath of laurel leaves encircling it, and at the bottom of the wreath was a pale yellow ribbon with the Latin phrase _Sapere Aude _(Dare to Know) _Est. 2xxx_. These flags swayed in the rhythm of the gentle autumn winds like spineless kites caught in a branch. His eyes followed the graceful movements of the colors, and he began to doze off.

Meanwhile, Professor Porth droned on about the Big Bang theory and the complexities that made it subject to many revisions. His baritone voice echoed across the quiet room, lulling the class as he spoke with lyrical monotony, and fragments of his self-absorbed speech made their way into Haymitch's ear.

"_It is the consequence... inflation... errors... revisions of the theory led... and because of this, Cosmologists are considering... the world and her inhabitants has countless duplicates... billions and billions of lightyears away."_

"Mr. Abernathy!" Clayton Porth's sudden outburst roused the class, including Haymitch, whose head was bobbing up and down while he slept. The professor stood before the inattentive student, his face gaunt and sharp. "I would like to believe that your disinterest in my subject is rooted from the fact that you have already mastered it."

Haymitch's eyes were blurry from sleep, but that did not stop him from noticing the varied looks his classmates were giving him, as if they weren't guilty of the same offense. Tiffany was sitting far across the room, her eyes scanning him with worry. Plutarch, whose eyes were almost shut from the bruises he received last Friday, could not suppress a smile. But it did not last long because his split lip started to ache. Conrad Hart, Bilius Videbeck, and Fredward Fitzgerald gave each other knowing looks, and offered their troublesome friend half-hearted smiles – a gesture of surrender – for they did not know what to do to help him ease the heat of embarrassment. Some of the girls looked at Haymitch and sighed dreamily. They could not care less if he was in trouble, so long as he looked good while doing it. Eric Dugan, who could not get a good look at the dark-haired spectacle because Professor Porth's back was blocking the view, hurriedly reached for his inhaler because even simple encounters like this triggered his asthma.

Haymitch cleared his throat. "I am sorry if I have offended you, Professor Porth," he said, "but I fail to understand the significance of this lecture." He watched as blood rushed to Clayton Porth's bony cheeks.

"_Here we go,"_ Fredward's voice was a barely audible whisper.

Haymitch did not know much about the topic at hand, but he did know this: the Big Bang would remain a theory, unless proven otherwise. And the proof they were looking for was in a distance so great, they did not have a name for it. _'What idiot would believe the existence of an alternate world?' _"Professor Porth, the Big Bang is practically on a dead-end, here. Obviously they're forgetting something, or else they're just – I dunno – plain wrong. You have to admit that the notion of having a duplicate lightyears away does sound rather preposterous, don't you think? Why even talk about it?" It did not take long for Haymitch to realize that once more, his aggression got the better of him. But it was too late to take it all back; he had spoken, and only luck or mercy could save him now.

"My boy, it is the consequence of this theory! The Universe is vast, how are we to know that somewhere, a young man strikingly similar to yourself is, let's say, mining coals instead of studying in this prestigious school?" he chuckled. "Well, we can't, but even still, we couldn't deny the possibility of your parallel's existence simply because you did not meet him."

Clayton Porth believed the standard theory of how the Universe came to be. Of course, like other theories, scientists needed to patch up the loopholes created along with their studies. The theory could not be confirmed as several factors were overlooked, and these factors were detrimental to the validity of the Big Bang; inflation, temperature, and the measurement of time were among these. Cosmologists did further research to fill the gaping holes that mocked their previous conclusions, and after several revisions were done, they came up with a more intricate theory that responded to the previously unanswered questions. But like before, these new findings had ramifications. The conclusion explained everything perfectly, but it also implied that billions and billions of lightyears away from each other, parallel worlds existed – an alternate world, some called it. And in those worlds, similar people who led different lives might exist, too. It was embarrassing, even for them, to admit because they had no way of proving it. Thus, the veracity of their theory remained questionable to this day. The Big Bang theory was akin to an old, beaten cloak riddled with holes; the seamster did what he could to patch it up, only to find that his success at covering the holes worsened its condition. In the end, the cloak was perfectly functional, but it could not be worn outside because it looked ridiculous.

"Do remember that Science knows no bounds. And sometimes, even the most ludicrous things that do not ring true may in fact, be a breakthrough." The Professor continued. He drew in his breath, anger forgotten. He was the kind of man who entertained, even enjoyed his students' questions and doubts, however impertinent they may be. It was the quality that made him remarkable as a teacher, the reason why he was asked to remain in Saint Fabiola in spite of his students' constant complaints about his primitive methods of teaching (he was the only one who assigned leather-bound textbooks when other teachers required them to use an electronic book reader). Ironically, his enthusiasm did not manifest in his speech – his voice was a sedative that could lull anyone to sleep – in turn, his students became inattentive, opting to get lost in a world of dreams and fantasies – something that frustrated him to no end. "So listen, my boy, and take it all in. Because while this theory's validity is questionable, a nugget of information goes a long way. And you may never know, but there might be a similar boy in this Universe who's wishing he had your luck." A tight smile formed on his lips. "I'm glad that you shared your insights, Mr. Abernathy, and for that I will not deduct points from you."

Haymitch did not want to thwart his good fortune, so he admitted defeat. To spew out more ignorance in front of a seasoned professor was akin to swimming against the raging seas – it cannot be won. _'I should really try to control myself,' _he thought wanly, but those were empty words. Sooner or later, belligerence would rear its ugly head and get him into a world of trouble, but for now he was grateful for the consideration he received.

"Thank you, sir."

Despite himself, Haymitch wondered about how his life would have differed if he lived in one of those other worlds Professor Porth had talked about. It sounded inviting. Maybe he'd trade places with the theoretical coal miner Haymitch who wished to live his luxurious life. _'Let's see how he likes it.'_ He let out a small, bitter laugh. What if in some other world, he was fated to endure one of those crazy arenas his father came up with? What if he already has? What if in every alternate world, his counterpart was just as miserable as he was, only in different ways? The joke would be on the boy who wished to live as himself in another world. The joke would be on him.

'What luck that would be,' Haymitch thought, and did not speak for the rest of the class.

Haymitch and his friends, Conrad, Bilius, and Fredward stood at the side of the courtyard after the lunch bell rang, basking in the faint glow of the autumn sun. Around them were other students walking around campus in their standard issue purple blazers – it was a shade so deep it almost appeared black – and grey slacks or plaited grey skirts. While swirls of deep purple and grey buzzed around them like bees, the four boys just stood by the corner and watched the Marching Band of Saint Fabiola perform their routine – a steady cadence and relentless drumbeats whilst the girls, in their short, purple skirts, and knee-high leather boots, twirled their batons gracefully. Tiffany was among them; she would occasionally steal a glance at Haymitch, and smile sweetly. He always smiled back – not an arrogant smirk, but a genuine smile, the kind that revealed a little of one's soul.

Haymitch's friends were fascinated by the infinite possibilities the vast Universe had to offer. They gushed about alternate worlds the way a group of middle school girls would discuss their future weddings – all smiles and bright eyes. They imagined what they would look like, how the world itself would be like. Save for Bilius Videbeck, whose obsession with scholarly endeavors rendered his skin ghostly and greyed his hair prematurely, they were not the kind of people who marveled at Science, but just this once, they shared the same amazement.

Bilius said that he watched an old Japanese animated series – the kind of show that aired late at night in an obscure satellite channel nobody ever watched – about a world that excelled in Alchemy instead of the Physical and Biological Sciences. He said that in the main protagonist's desperation to retrieve his brother's soul and body, he managed to create a gate that led to Munich, Germany.

Conrad and Fredward, who were best friends since kindergarten, had little interest in such things. The only antediluvian thing they allowed their eyes to see was an American animated movie about a group of young dinosaurs who went on adventures and sang songs about friendship. Of course, those fun activities happened before they were wiped out from the planet. And that movie was created long before the United States of America failed as a nation and became Panem. They did not enjoy the film, knowing that the little dinosaur, his grandparents, and his friends became nothing but fossils within a fossil – remnants of an artistic endeavor that had long been devoured by mankind's inadequacy to act humane. Of course, Conrad and Fredward were unable to express it as such, because even they could not point out what felt so wrong. But they were certain it was _"supposed to be heart-warming, but watching it now just felt creepy." _

"What do you think?" Fredward noticed that Haymitch was so absorbed in his secret conversation with Tiffany, and sighed. "Uh, 'Mitch?"

"Oh—well, I bet it'd be interesting if a bunch of happy and friendly dinosaurs co-existed with us," Haymitch said, turning his head to face his friends. "But it's not something I'd prefer."

"Maybe in another world, that would be the case," Bilius said, trying to turn the focus on parallel universes once more. "Thank you, Conrad and Fred for telling us a heart-warming and equally tragic tale about a bunch of dead dinosaurs."

"Anyway, the moral of the story is: no matter how much you hold on, dreams _can _and _will _die." Conrad said, his hands setting the unmanageable jet black mane crowning his head. His hazel eyes fell upon Haymitch who was, again, sending secret messages to Tiffany with his eyes. Conrad did not mean anything by it. He just felt a little frustrated that they could never have a decent conversation with their friend when _she_ was within range, but Fredward cleared his throat, as if sensing a strange and unwanted premonition in Conrad's seemingly meaningful comment.

"What if there was a parallel world where we're all dinosaurs?" He said a little too brightly, his voice cracking like a worn out rubber duck.

Conrad, Bilius, and even Haymitch turned to look at Fredward, whose chestnut colored hair remained untouched by the breeze. He stood motionless on the grassy space he occupied, his blue eyes scanning the faces of his friends – faces that were trying hard not to laugh. His fleshy lips parted into a goofy smile, and they doubled up with laughter. They laughed until their lungs were deprived of oxygen, and until their insides hurt.

Miles away from the Capitol, where laughter and joy was less abundant, Effie Trinket sat on one of the branches of an old leafless tree in the deserted corner of the schoolyard. Her shoulder-length tresses were gathered in a messy ponytail and strands of unruly hair were clumped together with sweat, sticking to her dirty face. She caught her breath and surveyed the ground below, looking at the mean faces of her assailants. They looked like jackals with their sweltering glares, crumpled noses, and bared teeth, circling a prey they could not reach.

Sabrina Cole and her less-than-pleasant friends had become the regular source of Effie's discomfort. The bookseller's daughter was aware that attempting an offensive attack would be futile, for they were obviously bigger than her – she was twelve, they were fourteen, albeit with the minds of developmentally delayed four-year-olds – but she refused to be intimidated by people who obviously needed her brains to pass 8th grade. So she did the two things her tiny body could accomplish: run and climb. With her petite frame, she held a great advantage over them in these things; she was light on her feet and her weight did not hold her down, so whenever Sabrina's heavy footsteps approached – tailed by her equally big-boned associates – Effie dashed like a helpless deer.

Sabrina and the other two waited for her descent, but Effie knew better. They would wear themselves out eventually, and decide to harass someone else into doing their work for them. She looked at her hands that were stained with wood and sap, and wiped them on her faded blue jeans but the dust from the fabric only glued itself to her sticky hands. She was dying to clean herself up, to remove the streak of dirt on her red shirt, but the girls' bathroom was inside the school building, which, of course, was built on the ground, and climbing down the tree entailed dire consequences.

"You know, it would be easier if you just get down from that stupid branch and do our homework, bookshop brat," said one of Sabrina's friends. They called her Grace, and the name did not befit her. Grace was tall and heavily muscled, with locks of greasy dark hair, and a large set of teeth that was parted in the middle. Because of malnutrition, it was unusual for kids from the Seam to grow so big, but her size was acquired through genetics. Also, she worked at the mine everyday, carrying sack after sack of coal. The brute must have figured that with her size, she could do hard labor – things average girls would not be able to do.

"Yeah. No," Effie shook her head, "I happen to like it up here. Sitting on a branch. Not socializing with my friends. Because, you know, spending time with you guys doesn't get old."

"How touching," it was Matilda's baritone voice this time, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She was more handsome than pretty. Her eyes are a deep shade of blue, like the seemingly endless ocean, her nose was high-bridged, and her lips were bow-shaped. Her chin-length hair was the color of sand, and her mandibles were chiseled, making her look like a brave Roman soldier. She had an older brother that looked just like her: Robert. Effie had seen him hanging out with the paperboy.

"Yes, definitely heart-warming," Effie said, her smile sickly sweet. "Nothing beats a daily dose of browbeating fun, eh?." she added.

"I swear to god, Trinket," Sabrina's voice was dangerously low, her light blue eyes were alit with unadulterated rage. Her long, blonde hair crackled with electricity "I am gonna bludgeon you once I get a hold of you." Her face reddened with impatience. They needed their homework done before the bell rang, and there was their beacon of hope, sitting on a tree with her legs dangling, mocking their inability to yank her down from her perch.

"Time is tic-tocking, Sabrina," Effie said in her most innocent voice, "That English homework isn't going to finish itself, you know."

She was hoping that Sabrina and her friends were desperate enough to have their work done before lunch was over so that they'd leave her alone. Her legs were starting to feel numb from the lack of circulation, having stayed in the same position for several minutes, and her skin itched. Her shoulders began to ache, burdened by a heavy backpack filled with books, writing materials, and unsubmitted homework. She shuffled in her perch, trying to move into a more comfortable position when she heard a splintering sound of breaking wood. The unsettling realization dawned on her: the branch she was sitting on was too old. Soon, it would break, taking her to the ground and leaving her with a fractured femur at best, and an open skull at worst. Knowing the people who awaited her descent, she would take the worst case scenario any day, if only they would disappear.

'_Now would be a good time to get bored,' _she thought. _'this is getting ridiculously perilous.' _

Another cracking sound was heard, and Effie could almost feel her legs dangle closer within Sabrina's reach. The process of breaking was painfully slow, and as the bookseller's daughter turned her eyes upward, she spotted a sturdier branch. It mocked her with the promise of security, something she could obtain if only her branch would allow further abuse. But it didn't, so she did not make a move.

"God, help me," Effie whispered to herself.

Inside the school building were corridors humming with life. A variety of children roamed the campus, immersed in conversation with their peers. There were pretty sixteen-year-old girls, born of merchants and their wives, laughing softly with their hands covering their mouths. They tucked loose blonde curls behind their ears demurely and the simple a-line dresses they wore flattered their curves. There were rowdy eleven-year-old boys pushing each other. They were loud but their voices were indistinguishable among the noisy crowd, mingling with the murmurs of the gossip mongers who whispered about courtships, teenage pregnancies, and kids who lived in topsy-turvy homes. Lucy Abbott was among these gossipers, and she sneered at the sight of Cristobel Gray walking with Maysilee and Marjorie Donner. Lucy had feelings for the baker's son, Sal Mellark, but his affections were reserved for _'pretty little Cristobel' _whose eyes were set on Virgil Everdeen, the paperboy with the golden voice.

Lucy and her friends watched as Cristobel and the Donner twins passed by with their hands waving as they approached Virgil and his friends, Robert and Gus. The gossipers whispered amongst themselves. Gabriel Hawthorne and Hazelle Gibbs were nowhere to be found, and this was odd, considering that Virgil usually kept their company, as well.

"Maybe they had an argument," Beatrice, the homely girl with dry brown hair said, her voice soft and small. "Virgil and the two, I mean."

"Didn't you hear?" Mimi, a girl who wore her blonde hair in pigtails, added, "Gabriel and Hazelle are dating, they probably want their privacy."

Lucy huffed and crossed her arms. She was tall for a fifteen-year-old girl. She was pretty enough, but her blonde hair had no luster and her features were sharp, making her look unapproachable and unpleasant – exterior qualities that reflected her spiteful nature. She was envious of people who had more, and this made her perpetually bitter. "Well I think Virgil is about to go to the woods outside the border, again," she stated this with confidence, "and Gabriel, being the scoundrel that he is, is probably over the fence already, waiting for his friends." It should be noted that Lucy had sharp insights, despite her vile disposition.

"How do you explain Hazelle?" Mimi chimed in. "She's not exactly the law-breaking type of person."

"Hazelle's probably working in the cafeteria kitchen," Lucy said, haughtily, "you know she's so poor she probably eats the leftovers from our trays." She looked at their subjects and shushed her friends. It was imperative for her to know what Cristobel is up to.

The three boys were animated, gesturing wildly as they conversed with their female peers. They talked about Virgil's kill two days before – an arrow shot straight to the eye of a moving target – and Virgil smiled shyly, as if Gus and Robert's compliments embarrassed him. But he occasionally glanced at Cristobel, and was pleased to know that she was nothing but proud and supportive of his brave, albeit illegal endeavors.

"Who'd you sell it to, Virgil?" Maysilee, a pretty girl with overgrown bangs, asked, an enthusiastic grin plastered on her face. She looked at Marjorie who could have been her mirror image were it not for the unmistakable differences in their mien – Maysilee was gregarious and puerile, while Marjorie is prudent and lady-like. "Damn, I should've come."

"Well, I sold it to the butcher," Virgil said, "I'd sell it to Mayor Kinney, or Buck, but the deer's too big; they'll have a hard time cutting it up."

"You know, Virgil," Marjorie's voice was soft, but she sounded unimpressed nonetheless, "one of these days, you're going to get your tongue cut off for running around outside territory." She looked at Maysilee whose eyes were shimmering with excitement at the prospect of hunting. "The same goes for you, Macy. You shouldn't run around in the woods. I can't cover for your absences at home and in school forever, you know." She crinkled her nose and looked around, sensing a disturbance. Marjorie had very good intuition, and could tell if someone was eavesdropping. It was a quality she shared with her twin. Her eyes fell on Lucy and her friends. "I'm sorry, but I think you've tuned in to the wrong conversation, Abbott," she chided, and the gossipers turned away, embarrassed.

"Maysilee is very good at what she does," Cristobel said when Lucy and her friends left. Her voice was calm and her blue eyes appeared to smile with her lips. "And besides, the law is not strictly implemented, at least not here. Our mayor and peacekeepers are beautifully corrupt."

"I prefer the word _tolerant,_" Gus said. "You don't even have to give them discounts. The taste of juicy meat is enough."

"I swear, they even thank us for it," Robert added, "poachers are like, I dunno, the modern Robin Hood, or something." He began to process this analogy. "Of course we don't steal from the rich so that we could give to the poor. _We are the poor. _But the point is, we're doing this district a form of service at the cost of our own safety."

"See Marj," Maysilee finally said, "we're modern heroes." She turned to the boys. "Well, I could use some extra cash right about now. We better go."

Virgil nodded, "You're right. Gabe's waiting," he turned to look at Cristobel, "Do you need anything? Some herbs, leaves, flowers? I'll get them for you."

"No, I still have a lot of supplies from your last gathering," Cristobel said, she looked at the analogue clock on the wall. It was 12:45 PM "you guys better go before the bell rings."

The group parted ways, with Cristobel and Marjorie heading for their next class, and Virgil, with Maysilee and the two boys, heading towards an exit that led to the schoolyard. Blocking their way out was a sea of people heading back inside, and they struggled against the raging current of scurrying children. By the time they made it out, almost the whole yard was devoid of students, save for the farthest corner where they saw three large girls circling the old tree. Maysilee was the first to notice the familiar face of Matilda.

"Hey, Bob," she said, "That's your sister over there, right?"

The sun was high and painful to the eyes, and Robert's vision was blurry with white light. He squinted, trying to find his younger sister amongst the blur of color and mass. "Yep, there's no mistakin' it," he finally said. "That's Tilly and her _friends_." He spat the last word out of his mouth, as if it was venom.

"The way they're standing there, you'd think Matilda and her chums are offering a sacrificial lamb to their god, or somethin'," Gus chuckled at the thought. "They're frickin' Amazons."

"Maybe they are," Virgil muttered; his eyes were focused on the girl who was precariously positioned on a branch. "That's the bookshop girl on the tree. You know, Trinket?"

"Looks like the kid's about to be fed to the sharks," Maysilee observed. "Maybe we should give her a hand."

Robert walked past Gus, his light-colored brows furrowed in annoyance. He loved his sister but not the company she kept, and he reminded her time and time again to find better friends. Virgil followed close behind with an intent to help his regular customer from being harassed by a group of malevolent fourteen-year-old girls.

"Matilda!" Robert's voice boomed throughout the deserted grounds, "What the hell are you doing terrorizing a frickin' 7th grader?"

His deep blue eyes burned with rage as he moved toward his younger sister. Robert and Matilda shared a close relationship as brother and sister – he fondly called her Tilly, and in turn, she called him Bobby – but the former had a certain quality in him that made the latter's skin crawl whenever he spoke with ferocity and ire. In Robert's presence, Matilda seemed small and mousy. He towered over her, and she recoiled.

"I warned you about hanging out with Sabrina!"

"We were just trying to help Trinket climb down the tree," Matilda lied, "but it's hard because we're big, see. We cannot climb the tree, and the branch she's sitting on is – uh – breaking." She nodded, seemingly proud of her ability to think on her feet.

"That's a lie!" Effie shouted from her crumbling perch, "I'm stuck in this tree because you're out to get me!"

From above, Effie could see Matilda's pale face and watery eyes. She felt like smiling at the sudden turn of events. Sabrina and Grace tried to walk away, but Maysilee and Gus stood in front of them, eyebrows raised in question. Virgil was fishing out the large sturdy blanket he carried around in his bag. It was a present from Ripper, a friend whose family sold alcohol and cigarettes at the Hob; something he could use if he wanted to take a rest in the woods. But he managed to find other uses for it, as well.

Virgil called his friends for assistance. "Hey guys!" he yelled out, "Forget Matilda and the others, I need you to help me catch our wimpy friend, here." They did as they were told, and the three bullies took this opportunity to run. He turned his attention back to Effie whose eyes were now wide as saucers.

"What are you gonna do?" her voice trembled in panic while she slightly turned her head to watch the four older children spread out the blanket a little behind her. She had an inkling that their plan required her to do something a little too daring for her liking.

"We need you to dive backwards for the plan to work," Virgil sensed the doubt that clouded Effie's mind, and he sighed. "Don't worry, bookshop girl, we have impressive upper body strength." His eyes fell on Effie's backpack. "I advise you to throw your bag to the ground, though. It may hurt you."

Effie looked at Virgil and his friends, each face was showing encouragement. Her heart pounded against her chest, she heard it pumping blood and adrenaline through her vessels. Despite her fears, she did what was instructed. Carefully, she removed the bag and threw it on the ground. It landed with a _'thud' _and she worried that her landing might prove to be more tragic. But the bookseller's daughter knew that she had to take a chance. If she tried to reach the trunk, the branch would break and cause an agonizingly painful fall. She had to trust her rescuers – most of them she only knew from afar – to catch her. So with her eyes closed, Effie Trinket followed the paperboy's advice to dive backwards. It did not take long, but the seconds ticked by ever so slowly. She felt the pull of gravity dragging her down, and it felt oddly exhilarating. When she opened her eyes, the soft fabric of the blanket was tickling her skin, and relief washed over her fear-stricken features. The branch Effie was sitting on swayed to and fro, awaiting its fate – an inevitable fall that would forever separate it from the tree. She looked around and saw her saviors' smiling faces. She was safe, and she owed it to them. Gently, Virgil and the others placed the blanket on the dusty soil. It was Robert who stepped forward to pull Effie from where she was laid.

"Sorry about Tilly," Robert said, his voice loud but sincere, "she has a lot of insecurities, and I guess she's taking it out on the younger kids."

Effie smiled at him and nodded, "An apology isn't necessary," she said quickly, "I should really thank you guys for helping me out." She dusted herself and stepped off the blanket that caught her fragile body. "I mean, I would've ended in the infirmary were it not for your efforts to save me." Effie did not like the infirmary. It smelled of healing herbs and vomit.

"Well, bookshop girl," Virgil chimed in while he folded the blanket, "I guess we all know what to do now that you're safe from a death-defying fall." He gave his friends a meaningful look, and the others seemed to agree with the hidden message the paperboy sent.

Effie Trinket was no stranger to them; she had a good reputation among their group. Virgil had shared a thing, or two about her in passing, and they thought she had an interesting character. They came into a mutual agreement to befriend the younger girl, and what better way to show amiability than an invitation to an activity they held so dear.

"Get back to class?" Effie suggested.

"Uh, no, sweetie, you're smart enough to skip a few classes," Maysilee said, "I think that what you need is to learn a thing or two about surviving the wilderness, am I right, Virgil?"

"Ah, Maysilee, it's as if you're reading my mind," Virgil winked. "What do you say to having a little fun in the woods with us, Effie Trinket? You know, chasing around animals, climbing trees, the works."

"Seems to me that she already knows a thing or two about climbing trees," Gus chimed in, "it's getting down that she needs to learn."

"But I have to submit my homework, and we have a test and – " Effie tried to reason.

"And you're smarter than an average 10th grader," Robert cut her off, "but know next to nothing about defending yourself against my kid sister." He gave Effie a gentle shove. "You need some fresh air, kid. So, come on. It's not like we're asking you to skip school _everyday. _A streak of rebellion is good. "

Besides," Virgil added, "I owe you. I'll be more than happy to teach you the ways of an illegal hunter. You'd be strong and agile before you know it."

"I might not come back alive," Effie whispered, her eyes wide in trepidation.

"Tss," Gus sounded exasperated. "Come on. D'you really think we'd let anything bad happen to you?"

Effie pursed her lips in uncertainty, but Virgil and the others were looking at her with hopeful eyes, as if they really wanted her to be part of their little group. _'Since when did mentors become so eager to take in a wimpy apprentice?' _she wondered. She was not too keen on coming, but she owed them, and did not want to refuse their offer.

"I suppose not,"she decided. "Okay, I'll come along."

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A/N: And there goes chapter 4.

That thing about the Big Bang Theory was frickin' difficult to write simply because I cannot fully comprehend it, myself. I'm layman all the way. Hahaha! Anyway, when I read _The Never-Ending Days of being Dead by Marcus Chown_, _Elvis Lives _was the first topic, and it was all about the Big Bang theory. I'm not a science junkie, and I can't explain it, but the bottomline is the Big Bang had loopholes that needed fixing. And they did, but their explanation also implied the existence of duplicates. If you want the juicy details, find the book, or surf the internet. They're much better at Science than I am. And seriously, I don't know if there are any updates on the Big Bang. I don't know if they're in a dead-end, or if they're looking for another explanation, or if they're just looking for a way to find our duplicates (there are so many). Personally, I don't think they're workin' on proving the existence of duplicates because our distance from them... well, let me just say that there are far too many zeroes. Unless we can utilize wormholes, I don't think we'll ever meet our parallels. Just my two cents. If you know more stuff about this, please, enlighten me, for I am your ignorant internet friend. :D

Oh, and the Japanese animated series Bilius watched. It was the first Anime adaptation of _Fullmetal Alchemist_. It's good, really. I recommend it, but _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_ is even better. _Brotherhood_ takes after the manga. Anyway, _Hiromu Arakawa_ is the genius who created it.

As for the movie about dinosaurs. It's called _The Land Before Time. _You know the theme song... _If we hold on together/blah blah... dreams will never die. _I don't remember the lyrics, sorry.

And the tree, and the branch, and all that outdoorsy stuff. I almost died. I never went out of the house to play, ever. I don't know how to climb a tree, and I don't know about breaking branches. So if Effie's predicament sounded totally ridiculous, feel free to point it out.

I'm using the spellcheck here, and it's pretty efficient. The spellcheck in my word processor isn't working as it should. It says something about being in Danish, or something. I'm trying to be vigilant. I edited this over and over again, but I might've missed some things, so feel free to point out errors.

Again, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and feel free to review. Scratch that, I'm begging you to review. No, scratch that. Feel free to review. :) And yes, I am feeling specially talkative today, I don't know why, really. I'm insane. O_o Maybe not.


	6. A Father's Dilemma

A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

A/N: I was doing pretty well with this chapter, until a euphoria-induced writer's block claimed me. See, I finally got the result of my licensure exam and I passed. Huzzah! So, you can only imagine my joy. Things are going to be pretty busy for me from now on, since I have to train, take an oath, get a job... you know, all the horrible stuff. I'll update, of course, but I'm not too sure if I'll be able to meet the two-week deadline. Even so, I do hope you guys bear with me. Here's chapter 5. :)

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Chapter 5

Richard sat idly on a stool behind the counter - the very same stool he was sitting on the day Sara, his deceased wife, first entered his bookshop – as he punched through the digits of his calculator. The window on his right framed the inky black sky – a canvas God had painted on with tiny dots of light – and the closed shops whose windows were alit with the faint yellow-orange glow of battery-operated lamps or candlelights (power was a rare commodity in District 12, and the citizens suffered plenty of dark nights). The bookseller sighed and flicked the switch of his battery-operated desk lamp on and off, dark and light alternating with each other, casting eerie shadows against his face. Lately, he spent his Saturday nights waiting for his daughter to come home.

Effie was not one to stay out late on a Saturday. In fact, she was not one to go out, at all. She spent her free time reading books, and trying to expand what little education the district had to offer into something worthwhile. But recently, Richard noticed that his daughter's interests were shifting. While she spent her weekdays doing homework and reading books, and her morning routine remained unchanged, Saturdays became a mystery to him. It's not that his little girl left home without a word; she provided details. She would tell him of her plans to spend the day on the meadows – to get some fresh air, to smell the wild flowers, or to watch the birds fly south; she had an arsenal of excuses for going out – but the mudtracks on their wooden floor raised a certain awareness that his daughter's activities were not completely innocent, or harmless. The grass stains on her jeans and the streaks of earth on her shirt did not provide reassurance, either. Week after week, when his daughter would wear her leather boots and walk out of the bookshop with her backpack hanging on one shoulder, the bookseller hoped that things would return to their normal state the following week; that next Saturday, he would find Effie curled up in her bed, reading about the adventures of a certain boy wizard and his friends, or else, cutting out newspaper clippings from the Panem Daily (an utterly worthless source of news, in Richard's opinion, but if it kept his daughter away from going out too much, he'll gladly support this obsession). _'She'll be fine,' _he would tell himself, _'let her have a little fun outside once in a while.' _But many Saturdays had passed – a month's worth – and by then, he was certain his daughter's choice of outdoor recreation did not involve merely lying peacefully on the cold, grassy earth. _'After all, how many children came home with muddy boots as a result of watching the clouds?' _He sighed. _'Forget the mud. How many children who had such a passive activity in mind wore leather boots, at all?' _Effie was never a very good liar, and he could only take so much of her fib about meeting Amy and Kathy at the meadows, especially when he'd seen the two girls buying bread at Cal's shop. As a father, he spent too much time feigning sleep while listening to his daughter's faint footsteps as she tried to tiptoe her way upstairs, when he should be scolding her for staying out too late. Tonight, Richard Trinket would ask his child what she's been up to, and she would tell him the truth. _'Once in a while, you should play the role of a strict father.'_

The unmistakable sound of a turning knob alerted Richard of the girl's arrival, and he flicked the switch of the lamp on to get a good look at his daughter's guilt-stricken face.

"Well?" Richard's tone was grave, and Effie paused with her hand still grasping the brass knob, her eyes wide. "Care to explain why you're out late _again, _Euphemia Trinket?"

Her forehead was beaded with sweat and her cheeks were smudged with dirt. Effie bit her lower lip as she squirmed from where she stood. The soles of her boots were filthy with mud and stones, and each slight movement of the feet caused the tiny rocks in the crevices to grate on the wooden floor. The name _Euphemia _was reserved for long, serious discussions about the sad realities of life, or her unbecoming behavior. Effie knew tonight's discussion would be about the latter, and it made her a little nervous. _'I can't tell dad that I've been cavorting with a bunch of teenage poachers outside territory.' _

Effie remembered the first time they asked her to join their adventures; how reluctant she had been at the prospect of skipping school to break just about a million other rules. How her heart almost exploded against her ribcage! The moment she said _'Okay, I'll come along,' _thousands of ugly images swirled inside her head – getting electrocuted while crossing the fence, Buck Vega catching them red-handed and accusing them of rebellion, getting tried in the Justice Building and being shipped off to the Capitol to get their tongues cut out, a life lived in servitude to spoiled Capitolian families. It made her dizzy. The District 12 citizens had so little freedom, and she was risking this trickle of privilege for an afternoon of daring fun. _'This is insanity.' _The words reverberated in her head as she walked towards the forbidden grounds with Virgil and his friends – her new friends.

All her worries dissolved when she successfully crossed the fence, and saw a piece of earth far more rich than what her home could ever hope to be. She could smell the mustiness of the damp earth and the slimy mudpits, the sweetness of autumn flowers in bloom. She heard the crunching sound of leaves as they crumbled beneath her feet, the countless birds who sang a chorus in glorious harmony. She marveled at the vibrant hues that overwhelmed her eyes; all the colors were so rich and diverse that Maysilee's bright yellow hair, and Robert's ocean blue eyes dimmed in comparison. Her mouth was agape, her azure eyes wide in wonder. Effie felt invigorated by such awesome beauty that she barely noticed the grinning faces of her companions, and the appearance of Gabriel Hawthorne whom at age eighteen, felt responsible for his younger comrades' safety.

"A newcomer?" Gabriel's eyebrows shot up in mild surprise, and his obsidian orbs scanned Effie. The object of his scrutiny looked upon him with questioning eyes, and his fleshy lips formed a tight smile – an attempt he made to ease her discomfort. "A bit too young, don't you think?" He turned to Virgil who was retrieving his bow and arrow from a log.

Virgil shrugged, "I was twelve when you introduced me to the wonders of juvenile delinquency," he reasoned, "besides, we didn't even bring her here to hunt."

"Then, why'd you drag her into the forest?" Gabriel's eyebrows were quirked, his nostrils flared, and his head was turned ever so slightly to the side. It was how he always looked when genuinely confounded by his friend's actions. "I don't – "

"Education," Maysilee said before he could finish. She gripped a hand-made weapon she crafted on her own in one hand – a long wooden pipe – and long pointed needles on the other: It was a blow dart. She usually dipped the needles on a tranquilizing solution so that the prey would be immobilized. Gus and Robert, both adept in short-range combat, were her usual hunting companions. "We brought Effie here to learn a thing or two about survival."

"I didn't know we're taking in apprentices," Gabriel said, but did not protest. He walked toward Effie and put a callous hand on her shoulder. "Sorry, I think I was a bit rude," he said. "Anyway, my name's Gabriel, but people call me Gab, feel free to do the same." He paused for a moment, taking his hand off the younger girl's shoulder, and just as Effie was about to open her mouth, he continued. " Remember, it's Gab. Not Gabe. Not Gabby. And especially not Briel. I don't like how they sound – just Gab, 'kay?"

"Gab," Effie repeated, nodding. "I'm very pleased to meet you. My name's Euphemia Trinket, but I'd rather people call me _Effie_. It's shorter."

"Great, nice to meet'cha, too," Gabriel said, "Now, if you're really goin' to hang out here with us, you should be able to pull your own weight. If you can't, well –" he thought about it for a moment. What did happen to people who cannot fend for themselves? _'they die,' _he thought grimly, but he did not want to scare the girl off, so he bit his tongue and sucked on his teeth.

"I die a gruesome death?" Effie finished for him.

Gabriel shook his head, as if clearing it of the nasty thought, and smiled a little too brightly, which convinced Effie that he was indeed thinking about death. He averted his eyes to the distance, and pointed to a sizable mound of earth and stones – a hill of sorts. "That's where we're heading," he told Effie, changing the subject, "to our usual spot. It's relatively safe over there, and it's not far from here." He stressed the word _safe_, as if that's what mattered most – and it did – and signaled Effie and his friends to start the short trek.

As they went deeper into the woods, the song of nature was made clear; the unseen barricade that muffled Gaia's breathtaking voice seemed to have been lifted. The sound of flapping wings as birds flew from tree to tree, the steady streams of water as they flowed from narrow channels, the soft thuds of a graceful animal's footsteps, and the rustling of the leaves as the soft autumn breeze caressed them filled the youngsters' ears. But while the others were used to hearing this sweet lullaby, Effie was rapt in awe as she took in the steady sound of life, and the pulsating rhythm of the circle. _'We are one.' _

Virgil was the first to speak upon their arrival at the hilltop. He turned to Robert and Gus who were carrying unsculpted wood in their arms. They got the wood from the scraps in Robert's father's workshop – wood the older man deemed unusable, or else, of poor quality. Out of these _useless things_, they created weapons, which were strategically hidden inside the hollow of the log. They leave their stock of wood nearby, hidden beneath the bushes.

"You better make some stuff for the bookshop girl," Virgil told them. "Weapons she can practice with, I mean."

"Don't forget to teach her, too," Gabriel added, "remember the old saying: give a man fish and he will be fed for a day, but teach a man how to fish and he will be fed for life. I think that applies to our friend's situation, here."

"Shouldn't Effie learn about basic survival, first?" Gus protested, and Robert nodded behind him in agreement. "I mean, she's in the woods."

"Crafting something that can defend you _is _a survival skill," Virgil reasoned. "You, of all people, should know that." He shifted his attention to the youngest member of the group. "Now, bookshop girl, I know you'd like to go exploring, but we'll save that for next time. For now, listen to Gus and Bob. You're going to need their skills."

The bookseller's daughter merely nodded as she was too busy marveling at the new sights the hill afforded her.

Effie spent that afternoon watching Gus and Robert carve objects out of wood, while Virgil, Gabriel, and Maysilee hunted and picked fruits. She sat across the two young men, absorbed by the ceaseless motion of their nimble hands. At one point, Gus gave her a carving knife and taught her the basic skills. It was not as simple as peeling potatoes, or slicing onions, and her hands were soft, even for a district girl. She received a cut, or two, maybe three, which was fortunate – according to Robert – compared to the cuts he received when he was learning the art from his father (wood carving was their family business, and it was a small one, too, because lumber came rarely). At the end of the day, Effie managed to carve a crude figurine of a three-legged shark (she insisted it was a horse), which Gus and Robert regarded as magnificent despite its obvious disfigurement. Gus managed to create a wooden replica of his dagger, and gave it to Effie.

"Something you can use for practice the next time," he told her. "I'll teach you some of the skills I learned from rough housing with my older brothers. They're good with a knife too, see?"

Extreme poverty was commonplace in the Seam, so Gus' brothers used to frequent the forest to assist illegal poachers, and were given the animals' skin as token (this was before they were old enough to work at the mines). His brothers taught him different ways to skin an animal, to drain the blood from their jugular vein. But they also taught him to kill and defend himself with a blade. Gus was the youngest of four children; he was small for his age, and skinny, too, but he learned to use these to his advantage. He could easily escape the tight huddle his brothers encased him in, and could slip between their legs when they tried to block his way. He dodged their homemade training knives with ease, and he learned to do an offensive attack with one swift movement. The eldest, Jeff, worked for Robert's father. He promised to teach Gus everything he learned in the wood carving shop, but did not get to fulfill that promise. Four years ago, Jeff was reaped for the Hunger Games, and died of an infection after three days in the arena. He was eighteen – a year away from safety. In the end, it was Robert who taught Gus how to carve – to create rather than to destroy – but Gus was the one who taught Robert how to kill.

"I'm not so sure if there is going to be a next time," Effie replied honestly, "I can't keep on skipping classes. I know our lessons are limited to what the government wants us to know, but I want to learn everything I can. I value education."

"Oh, there will be a next time," Gus sounded certain.

We're here every Saturday, too," Robert chimed in. "We only skip classes when we're desperate."

Robert noticed that Effie was looking at his handiwork admiringly, and could not suppress a smile. He handed it to her, and watched as she ran her fingers along the crevices of his latest creation. The staff was long and slender with lovely carvings all over its body. It was unthinkable that such intricate details were created in such a short period of time, by a gigantic fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy whose proportionally big hands were not made to carve such minute details. But it was, and that's what made it so spectacular.

"It's a spear," Robert said as Effie handed it back to him,"I made it as light as possible. Just a few additions, perhaps some polishing, and next week, you'll be able to use this beauty, bookshop girl." He was just about done with the weapon. He still needed to go to Marlon Undersee's underground kiosk for the spearhead. Undersee's was a place where kitchen knives and other hardware equipment were sold, but they had a stall at the Hob, where prohibited items like darts and hunting materials could be purchased. They called it Underground Undersee's, and Marlon's son, Philip, usually manned that stall after school and on weekends. The group shopped there on weekends and have gotten discounts because Philip had the biggest crush on Maysilee. However, Maysilee did not return his affection, and even wondered what the weak-legged student body president saw in her. "We'll have Gab teach you how."

Effie had never felt such great excitement in her life, and when the day ended, after they feasted on some wild berries Maysilee plucked off, she could not wait for Saturday to come. She never knew adventures could exist outside the four corners of her bedroom. All her life, she only knew happiness, sadness, fear, tedium, and longing. Fear mingled with anticipation was something she only understood through her imagination, but true excitement, as it turned out, was much more than that. She arrived home covered in filth, and her shoes left mudtracks on their polished wooden floor. Her father looked with questioning eyes, but she only muttered about cleaning herself up before sitting for supper.

"Rough day in school?" Richard asked as he watched Effie play with her vegetables.

"Yeah," Effie's voice was small, and for once, she did not feel like looking into her father's eyes. "I fell in the mud."

The next day, Maysilee invited Effie and her friends, Kathy and Amy, to eat lunch with them. There, the bookseller's daughter got acquainted with Marjorie, Cristobel, and Hazelle. They had so much practical information to offer, and before the week was over, she learned about knitting, plants, and removing oil stains using a stick of chalk. Like so many other things, eating lunches with the budding hunters and the three older girls became a new routine.

Effie's Saturdays were spent in the woods with Gus teaching her the different ways to use a knife, as promised, and Maysilee instructing her about the _'art of stalking prey.' _Virgil tried to teach her archery, but it was a skill she seemed incapable of learning. _"Let's save that for another Saturday," _he said after the bookseller's daughter came close to shooting Robert in the head by accident. It wouldn't be a good thing for Robert to die because he was assigned to teach her about the basics – knot-tying, and the like. And as for Gabriel, he decided it was too early for the girl to learn his skill.

Effie felt that she was living the life of her heroes and heroines, and was ecstatic. But as soon as she left prohibited grounds, her elation evaporated into thin air, like ether. What would she tell her father if he saw the mudy boots, the soiled t-shirt, and the tiny bruises on her arms and knees? She could only lie _again_. She spent her Saturday mornings delivering falsehoods as if they were simple truths, and did not enjoy the way her stomach turned when she did. Effie learned that guilt was the bitter aftertaste of adventure and education. _'No, it was the bitter aftertaste of lying for the sake of adventure and education, but it was worth it.' _However, as she looked at her father's perpetually gentle countenance, the words did not seem to ring true. Or they did, but she knew he probably thought otherwise.

"Dad," Effie sounded awfully cheerful, but the caution and tension in her delivery was palpable, "It's quite late." She pointed at the circular wall clock on her right (Richard's left), as if to prove her point. "It's 10 o'clock, shouldn't you be asleep?"

Richard stood from his perch and walked towards his daughter. "Hmmm, I believe I should be questioning you, not the other way around, young lady," he said as he stood in front of Effie with his arms crossed. "Shouldn't _you _be in your room at this hour?" He wiped her dirty cheek with his thumb, and she winced at the gruff gesture. "And why on earth are you so filthy?"

Effie shrunk under her father's stern gaze as she lowered her eyes to the ground. She knew it was only a matter of time before he asked about the sudden change in her behavior. She knew Richard was no fool; her weekend outings with the older kids in school were starting to become a routine, and if he fell for her lies the first week, she did not expect him to believe the next ones. Which was why she was mildly surprised, and relieved, that her father allowed her to go out the following Saturdays without further questioning. _'Maybe I can pull this off.' _ Effie should have realized that he was merely observing her behavior, wondering if her sudden desire to go out (and lie about the company she kept) was an unconscious cry for help, a form of rebellion, a passing fancy, or a newfound hobby he needed to get used to. He was the kind of father who allowed his child to explore and learn, so long as it did not cause her harm. It happened before – the sudden change in habit, and her trying to hide it – when Effie and Quincy started the paper routine. He had asked her about it, but she quickly decided that Nicholas Flamel and the elixir of life was a more interesting topic to talk about compared to her morning conversations with Quincy Parker; Richard deemed it best not to push her. For two weeks, he watched as his daughter waited for the paperboy's arrival. He wondered if his little girl's newfound interest in the news was a fleeting one, but eventually, the bookseller figured it would become a permanent part of his daughter's mornings.

"Why are you suddenly interested in the newspaper?" He remembered asking Effie one morning, while they were eating breakfast. He did not see the point of beating around the bush. His frankness would tell his daughter that hiding was pointless.

Effie's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, knowing she'd been caught. "Current affairs," she finally said as she downed a mouthful of cereal.

Richard raised an eyebrow and sighed. The way his daughter said the words _current affairs _made her sound all grown up; not at all like the little girl who was sitting across the table. "Trying to be an adult now, are we?" he smiled fondly at Effie. "But I don't like the idea of my little girl reading such grown up stuff. You might stop being my baby when you do."

Effie shook her head furiously. "But I'm _not _a baby," she said, "but I'll still be your little girl, if you want. I'll be your smarter little girl, though, so get used to that. I'll know more things about our country! Even if Quincy says that the Panem Daily offers very little information." Her blue eyes brightened at the prospect of knowledge. "It's better than knowing nothing, at all."

"The motto our education system obviously lives by," Richard muttered to himself. He noticed that his daughter's eyes were burning with question, and he backpedaled. "Don't think much about what I've said, dear. Anyway, If you want to know more about Panem, then you have to look at it with open eyes. You can read the paper all you want, or you can ask me questions, but if you really wanna know, then take a look around you and give your own conclusions." He smiled as Effie quirked her eyebrows in confusion. A sign that she did not understand much of what her father was trying to tell her. "You don't have to rush yourself into knowing. You're very young. But if you want to keep on reading the paper, then it's fine by me." Effie cracked one of her largest smiles, one that implied her elation, and it made him think that his consent was well-worth it.

He did not want to expose his daughter to the Capitolian propaganda they published in the newspaper – it was one of the government's attempts to corrupt the citizens into believing their country's crooked system; cyanide for the mind – but he trusted that Effie would grow up to be a smart young woman who held her own opinions and point of view. With a heavy heart, he allowed his daughter to continue reading the newspaper, and answered her questions as best as he could. He vowed to guide her every step of the way, to make known to her the reality behind the articulate prose and vibrant pictures the Capitolian journalists put on print. This time, however, as he looked at the tiny cuts and bruises on his twelve-year-old's arms, he instantly regretted his decision to _'let her have her fun.' _

"I did not expect that the blades of grass in the meadows could cut like – " Richard paused for a moment. He did not avert his eyes from his daughter's arm. "Well, I never quite thought that they could be as sharp as blades, is all, my dear." A sigh escaped his lips. "Take off your boots, Effie." He gently took her arms and led her upstairs, to her room. "Get yourself cleaned up, and afterwards, we'll talk."

Effie listened to her father's fading footsteps before heaving a sigh of relief. She knew the feeling of security would not last, that a few minutes from now, after she washed and removed the tiny leaves that crowned her messy hair, soaped the mud away from her delicate white skin, and scraped the grime off her fingernails, he would knock on her door and ask for the truth. And Effie was old enough to know that people tend to ask for truth with the promise of accepting it, only to find out too late that it was too much for them to take.

Just as Effie had expected, Richard knocked on her door several minutes later. By then, she was clothed in her purple cotton pajamas, and was seated on her chair trying to read an old classic by the light of her battery-operated lamp. She spoke shyly as she told him to _'come in' _and gazed at the door as her father's gangly form emerged from the darkness of the living room. His calm façade was strained with fret, his eyes painted with mild disappointment. Effie felt the heavy weight of guilt press down against her chest.

"I'm sorry," Effie's voice was small and close to breaking, her eyes were glazed with unshed tears of shame and sadness. But she did not know what she felt sorry for – she regretted nothing. Freedom had its price, and she managed to steal a morsel of it without having to face the dire consequences. It was sweet, wonderful, mind-blowing – indescribably beautiful – yet there she was, apologizing for tasting and wanting more of it. _'Is it a sin to want freedom? Is it not a privilege every man deserves? Is it wrong to steal a little of what is rightfully yours in the first place?' _She bit her lip as her father's eyes fell upon her face.

Richard stood still as he fixed his eyes on his daughter's face. In the dimness of the amber glow, he could see the longing in his little girl's eyes. She looked like a caged little bird, singing lullabies about a faraway world she did not even know – about a world that could have been hers. The bookseller recognized in her the same spirit he had as a boy, and felt torn.

"What you did, Euphemia," he walked towards his daughter and knelt, inspecting the mild injuries on her arms, "can kill you. Perhaps these injuries can't, but if you get caught – "

"I know," Effie's eyes were glued to the floor, trying to avoid what she imagined was a stern gaze of consternation. "I thought about it, too."

"Then why did you do it?" Richard asked. "Why would you carelessly act upon a whim when you know the danger that encompasses it?"

"Dad, we read all these books about people who are shackled by many different things," she looked up at her father, and tears began to stream down her face, "and the only way to be free is to fight, or to escape. I didn't do any of that. I just took a short breath. Is that so wrong?"

"But your life – " Richard tried to reason, but Effie cut her off.

"My life is insignificant," her voice was hard, her jaws clenched as she uttered each syllable, "I'm old enough to know that by now. They play with our lives for sport, they cheer at the sight of a dying child. If by any chance, I get called to play the Games, I'd die a prisoner. But imagine if I get caught in prohibited grounds, and they decide to hang me – to make an example out of me – well, at least I was able to have a little taste of what is rightfully ours, dad."

The bookseller heaved a sigh and rummaged through the kit for some cotton balls, and a flask of healing ointment. "Would it be worth it, princess?"

"Yes," Effie replied.

Richard paused for a moment and gazed upon her daughter's fiery azure eyes. All these years, he deprived himself of the opportunity to seek freedom. He spent his life trying to avoid death, that he had sacrificed what he truly wanted out of life. That was his mistake, and Effie did not make the same mistake. _'But who's to say that my precious daughter's decision was not a mistake much graver than mine?'_ As a father, he knew it was his duty to protect his child – the only memory he had of his wife – but then again, would he deny her the opportunity to know the joys a free man was afforded? _'How am I protecting her through limitations? How am I endangering her with liberation?' _Safety was but an illusion the government used to keep the masses in control. He knew it - they both did.

"Then I suggest you bring with you a first aid kit the next time you go to the forest," he relented. When a father became unable to protect his child, what else could he do but support her with the best of his abilities? He swallowed the lump in his throat as Effie circled her arms around him. _'I'm a father, and I know the part I should play. But fathers have their limits, too.'_

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A/N: I figured Effie's dad wasn't one to neglect his only child, so it would be really weird for Effie to run around the woods like an orphaned child - with no one to ask her where she goes when she leaves, is what I mean. I've nothing against orphans.

Oh, and I think we all know who the boy wizard is. XD

And again, I edited this as best as I could, but if you see errors, please feel free to point it out. Please review! :) Hope you guys enjoyed.


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